


Crumbling Edifices

by aura218



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Awkward Conversations, Chaptered, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dom/sub, Kink, Long, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Verse, Past Child Abuse, Romance, it's complicated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:50:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aura218/pseuds/aura218
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's complicated. Martin has spent his life resisting omega proscribed roles, but now that he's fallen pregnant, he needs Douglas in his life. </p><p>Meanwhile, Arthur is involved in a nonconventional relationship with a rich alpha. They have to keep it secret, even as they're trying to carve out a relationship on their own terms. Will their families interfere?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wheresmycow2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheresmycow2/gifts).



> Wheresmycow said: "Aura, could you please, please, puhlease make that snippet into a fic(let)? Please?" 
> 
> In response to the photo she posted [here](http://wheresmycow.tumblr.com/post/33186588436/douglas-always-had-a-thing-for-gingers) of Roger Allam kissing Gillian Anderson for a play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to [follow me on Tumblr](http://aura218.tumblr.com/)?

As the air hostie’s eyes drifted shut, Douglas peeped one of his open, and he caught Martin staring at him with unbridled hatred. Sickening guilt twisted in his gut, and he thought, I’m kissing the wrong redhead.

Douglas stepped back, holding the young woman by the elbows. A whisper of the kiss lingered on his lips. “I’m sorry, miss. I can’t do this.”

"Sorry?" the young woman said, confused. God, she was lovely. A stewardess with Air South Africa, she had a faintly German accent, and was the only  _human being_  he'd met in the crowded, Venetian airport lounge. 

And he was looking over her head at the retreating form of his captain, whisking away in navy polyester. 

"Look, ah," Douglas dropped enough euros to cover their drinks and then some, "I'm sorry, ah, honey." He couldn't remember if they'd even exchanged names. "Maybe some other time? Good luck with that promotion, yeah? I'm sure you're a shoo-in."

If she hated him, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Martin was bunking with Arthur this time. Their hotel was a Colonial affair that looked like a wedding cake from the outside, all white crenelations and Juliet balconies with heavy wood shutters clapped open. Antique marble lobby, a single cargo elevator cut through the center of a winding staircase that took an age. Douglas asked for Arthur's key at the desk and took the stairs up three flights, huffing, cursing all the nights he watched television and pointedly ignored the laundry drying on the arms of his elliptical.

He knocked first.

"Tell him to go away," he heard through the door. 

Douglas stooped and looked through the keyhole. Martin sat in a wicker armchair by the window with a book in his lap, glaring in Arthur's general direction, whom Douglas could hear but not see.

"How do you know who it is, Skip? That's a really neat trick!"

"Douglas was following me, Arthur, and now he's  _listening at the door_  because he's a controlling, demanding bastard who doesn't know what he wants!"

A shadow crossed the keyhole. Douglas leaped back, overbalancing over his heels. Arthur opened the door and stared down at him. Douglas looked up from where he was splayed in the hallway. Arthur cocked his head.

"What're you doing down there, Douglas?"

Douglas stood, brushing himself off. "Well! Not to worry, m'lad, the housekeeping here is  _excellent_. Now, if you'd step aside so I can speak with my --"

"Your what, Douglas?" Martin sniped, stalking up to the door. Don't go anywhere, Arthur. He's not allowed in."

Arthur looked between the two of them. "Uh -- if you say so, Skip. Sorry, Douglas." Arthur pushed the door shut.

Douglas slapped his hand against it. Pain jolted from palm to elbow. He  _would_ get his word in. "Martin," he said. "We've got to talk. Would you rather fly home tomorrow with a certain unspoken unspeakable filling the cabin?"

A bee was buzzing about the room. Martin followed it with his eyes, nibbling his lip. He sunk into the chair by the balcony door, ignoring both men. Arthur gently took the key out of Douglas' hand. He gave it up gracefully; he'd forgotten about that. Arthur slipped out of the open door and closed it gently behind him, sending an apologetic look over his shoulder to his pilot in the chair by the window. Martin watched him go while pretending not to care that Arthur abandoned him for his own good.

Douglas pulled the matching armchair around to face Martin, who stared out at the floating city with a stony expression. "Did you tell Arthur?"

"Where did you get  _our_ room key?" Martin spat. "And how  _dare_ you come up here demanding a chat after I see you kissing some  _woman_. Were you drinking, too?"

"No, of course not, why would you assume that?"

"Because -- because -- I really don't know anything about you, do I?"

"You certainly do! Of all the people in my life --"

"Then why, when I tell you I'm pregnant with your child, Douglas, do you turn into someone I don't even know? Or --" Martin huffed a bitter laugh " -- maybe you've merely reverted to the man we all know you truly are. Selfish. Self-motivated. Womanizer. Immature, frightened, irresponsible,  _lowlife_."

Douglas leaned back into the chair and covered his eyes. "Martin, it was one, aborted kiss."

"Funny choice of words."

"I'm sorry," Douglas didn't mean to sound so impatient, "but we're not even a couple, are we? I mean, what are we? Co-pilots who can't keep their hands off each other every couple of weeks? Lonely people who fall into bed together because it feels better than the alternative? What do you want from me?"

"Nothing."

Kings have sent would-be assassins to their death using warmer tones than those employed by Martin.

A warm breeze blew in from the street below. It brought in a whisper of summer, flowers, a fry-up from the restaurant that Douglas would prefer to be sitting in at the moment. A faint whiff of rubbish. The sun was low over the silver-blue slip of canal visible between the houses, the sky pink under the clouds. It was going to be hot tomorrow.

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Martin said.

"Do you want it?"

"I don't know." Martin shoved his palm impatiently into his eye socket. "Do you?"

"Yes." 

That had been the worst part. There were two choices: one meant this could all go away; the other, the one he couldn't push aside, the one that cloyed at his chest and his skin and his heart, was so complicated as to suggest impossibility. But nothing was impossible if Douglas Richardson decided it was destiny.

"Really?" Martin looked at him, terribly guarded and afraid. "Be-because, if you think this is just a fun idea for now -- you can't go back on this, Douglas, you can't change your mind in a year."

"No, Martin,  _our child_  would be one turkey that can't go back to the farm."

Martin pulled his feet up into his chair, knees sideways against one chair arm. "Why were you having drinks with that woman?"

Douglas leaned forward and touched Martin's knee. "Cold comfort, Martin. Like you said, you and I aren't together. Did you expect me to take such gargantuan news with grace and aplomb? As you've told me many times, a gentleman I am not."

Martin wiped his eyes and gave Douglas a damp smile. "Yes, you are. Can -- can you just be holding me right now?"

They didn't work as a couple, most of the time. At work, they got on each others' nerves. They still teased one another like schoolboys fighting for the top spot. Martin curled into Douglas' lap, pressed his forehead into Douglas' neck, and let Douglas sooth his back and scritch his scalp. They had always slotted together like this in the scattered moments they took to find peace together.

"I was afraid you wouldn't want it," Martin said.

"Does that mean you do?" Douglas said.

"I -- I can't afford it," Martin said. "I've no time to be a mum."

"What if you had the money and the childcare?"

"You mean if I won the lottery? I . . . I don't know, Douglas. I've only known that I'm going to have it for about a week, you know."

Douglas' worked his arm around Martin's middle until he could wrap his hand over his tummy. Did it feel firmer? Perhaps a bit more lush? 

"Do you have firm feelings about dinner?" Douglas said. He got a much more pleasant reaction to that.

"You're buying." Martin didn't move. "Let's go . . . in a few minutes."

Orange sunset filled the room, and a street busker below sang "O Solo Mio." The two in the chair kissed, and nothing was certain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Western Europe grows by miles.

"What's that you're fiddling with, Arthur?"

Arthur looked up over a tray of empty mugs. "Just my phone. It's in airplane mode, don't worry."

Douglas reached for the coffee. "I couldn't care less if you're calling your girlfriend again to tell her about the cloud that looks like Margaret Thatcher's nose, but if you've got something to tell your mother, I'd advise it wait until we land."

"No, no," Arthur said. "It's just an app I downloaded that tells you when your baby is going to be born and what color eyes it'll have and things."

Douglas tipped an obscene cascade of sugar into his mug and stirred. "I see. And is this a personal genetic experiment, or do you have some happy news to share?"

"Didn't Skip tell you? He was really sick early this morning and he said it wasn't at all to do with alcohol or food but was down to his hormones, so I asked him what he meant because everyone has hormones, but mine never made me throw up like _that,_ I mean wow, Skip's a really good puker, you should've seen."

Douglas winced and dug through Arthur's beverage cart for a ginger ale or a Coke or something. It wasn't his fault he couldn't carry the babies, but his second wife -- Mattie's mother -- had had some choice opinions on who ought to be sharing the runnier aspects of baby brewing.

"If only we knew who the mum was," Arthur speculated. "'Cause right now, she looks like a potato version of Skip." He turned around the phone. By god, it did, bless the good people at Atari.

"Martin is the mum," Douglas corrected. "He's the omega, he gestates, he's called 'mum'."

Douglas stepped around Arthur into the crew passage that led to the flight deck. Arthur followed him.

"Oh. . . ." Arthur said. "Then who's the . . . other person? I didn't know Skip had a someone."

Douglas stopped so short,  Arthur ran up his heels.

"Sorry, Douglas."

"It's -- I don't care. Arthur, what do you mean 'she'?"

"The baby, of course. Skip says it's a girl."

Douglas pressed the cold can to his temple. Preposterous. "It's a one-week-old blastula that more closely resembles a raspberry than a human being."

"Actually," Arthur adopted his 'Professor Arthur' tone, turning to his phone. "According to my research, it's a little wormy thingy like the bait we used when we fished for sunnies at Lake Whitehead. Isn't that brilliant, that everything starts as a little lizard fish-man, even if you're gonna be a snake or a cat or a whole big human?"

Baby Fish Crieff-Richardson was older than a week, then, Douglas mused. How long had Martin known? He opened the flight deck door; Martin sat at attention, all tense arms at the steering column and his eyes too focused straight ahead.

Craning his neck around the door, Douglas murmured, "You're not to tell anyone about this, Arthur, not even your mum. It's Martin's business, you understand?"

"Of course! Only, you know how I am --"

"Arthur."

"I'll go straight home, promise. No stopping for tea or to show Mum her present."

"There's a lad. Now, I think our cargo want their tea before supper, hmm?"

"Oh! Right." Arthur scurried back to his kettle, no doubt boiled dry by now.

In the flight deck, Douglas set the ginger ale beside Martin and took his seat. Martin thanked him, looking over the gap between their seats in suspicion as he took a sip. Douglas took control and Martin relaxed by scribbling some figures on a tablet, even though their heading was locked in and all their fuel accounted for.

"All right, Martin?"

"Fine. Interesting conversation with Arthur?" He crossed his sevens and circled his answer, just in case the professor would be by to check his work.

And this was the omega in whom Douglas had chosen to deposit his DNA.

"It's always _interesting_ when one risks conversation with Arthur," Douglas said.

"Glad to hear it."

Douglas sighed from the depths of his soul. He couldn't think of a single game, gag, or gaff to pass the time.

Longest western crawl of Douglas' career. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chap is back.
> 
> They told me in writing school "The first time you lose a whole chapter and have to rewrite it, and it comes out better, you'll realize it's a GIFT to start from scratch." They fucking lied. Always make backups. Never trust a website to house your stuff. And never press DELETE if you don't have EVERYTHING saved somewhere else.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10:30 to 12:30, Wednesday night. This is starting to become a ritual.

It wasn't a date. Douglas and Martin didn't go on 'dates.' They had companionable gents' nights in shared hotel rooms in dull Balkin states where they didn't speak the language, when neither wished to explore the land alone and sober, because Douglas was in recovery and Martin was skint. If the destination had been halfway decent that night Martin had been in heat, they wouldn't be in trouble together now. 

"When are you going to talk to Carolyn?" Douglas said as they ate a the leftover stew he'd pulled from his freezer. 

Martin used to scrunch his nose at a glass of milk, but now he was drinking it like a little boy back from footie practice. Pregnoids. "When I'm ready."

Douglas smirked. "She may notice if you give birth en flight."

Martin send him a put-upon, oppressive huff. Half the time, Martin didn't mean  to sound like the twat he came off as, which made his permanent  _pie-en-boca_ disease all the more tragically endearing. 

Douglas took the plate from him, catching his wrist, and twisted away from the table to beckon Martin into his lap. Martin resisted, but he tugged, hands on those narrow hips. Martin conceded to standing between his knees, reluctantly holding Douglas around his shoulders.

"Martin, lots of people have children because they got pregnant. This could be good, don't you think? I _like_ children, I always wanted more, it just never worked out for me."

Martin nodded.

"What?"

"Nothing." Martin gathered the dishes. "You cooked, let me clean."

He _reheated_ , hardly made any effort. Douglas helped Martin clear and stack and straightened up the mess that grew whenever he was let alone in the house for more than a week. He really needed a wife. Even if someone else didn't always do the fiddly things for him, an exasperated presence in his life had a civilizing effect -- he needed someone to remind him he was long, long past uni. Martin was about as domestic as a tomcat who liked his hidey-hole just so, but fate save he who upset Martin's very particularly placed, tottering pile of flight manuals.

"I thought maybe we could cuddle up in front of a film?" Douglas said as he wiped down the stove.

Martin snapped the silverware in the drying rack. Douglas turned, surprised. "Are you _really_ sure about this, Douglas? You realize you're fifty-two years old. You'll be almost seventy when this kid goes to uni."

"And how old will I be in seventeen years if you have an abortion?" He leaned his hips against the worktop, crossing his arms.

Martin flung the scrub brush at the backsplash. "If you're looking for a hobby, Douglas, you can take up whittling." 

"Just so we're clear, m'boy, I'm the one who's already done this once --"

"No! No, you're not. You haven't gained three stone or developed saggy breasts or had your job threatened because you're up the duff with  _no money at all_. So don't act like you're the great and powerful Oz --"

"Martin, I'll take care of you! Did you think I was going to inflict my child on you and send you out into the world like the little match girl?"

Douglas hadn't expected Martin to _pull a coffee mug out_ of the drainer and throw it at Douglas' head. It struck the cupboard behind him with a heavy thunk and smashed on the Spanish tiled floor. He liked that mug. Now it was three big hunks and a starshot powder impact pattern. The handle power-banked off the island and spun under the fridge.

He started to shout, but Martin shouted louder. 

" _What the hell am I supposed to think_!"

Douglas stared, jaw agape. Martin never raised his voice. He said his mother taught him it was undignified to express emotions in full voice.

"You don't even like me!" Martin continued. "You aren't my boyfriend or my partner. You've tried to get me fired on at least three separate occasions!"

"I never have!" He really hadn't. Martin was too useful a patsy.

Martin quivered. The worst part was that he wasn't crying, he was simply terrifying. "You think I'm unprofessional and stupid and just -- just some -- some little bug so far below the great and glorious  _sky god_. What use do you even --" he chuckled, a cynical, suggestive sound. "Well, we obviously know what kind of use you get out of me."

Martin spun out of the kitchen. Douglas stood rooted to the fixtures, horrified and furious. Of all the undignified things he'd ever been accused of . . . 

He heard the front door locks clicking. Oh, hell no.

"Martin!" Douglas thumped down the stairs in stocking feet. 

"Piss off," Martin said. 

For the second time in two days, Douglas pressed a palm to a door because he knew Martin wanted to see if he'd chase him. If Martin hadn't wanted it, he wouldn't have bothered. 

"Martin . . ." He had every right to shout his innocence, to accuse Martin of a few choice things too. What utter manipulation and childishness. He touched Martin's elbow, gently, until the man turned again and leaned against the cool front door. 

"Let me go," Martin said.

Douglas stepped back. Martin glared at him.

"How long have you been wanting to shout all that at me?" Douglas said.

"Um. Those words specifically? About six hours." His red face against the robin's egg door turned sheepish.

"And the general sentiment?"

"Pretty much the whole time we've been -- whatever we've been."

Douglas considered what it meant to have been 'whatever' with Martin. There was the first time they slept together, five months ago in one of the flat states in America; before that, the silly, playful kiss in South Africa; but first, the slow realization that teasing Martin had morphed from irritation to flirtation. And that Martin was setting himself up, sometimes, to be teased, if only so he could smile and flush and look up at Douglas from beneath his long eyelashes. It was around that time when Martin began hanging around airport bars with Douglas, even though he hated the other pilots, and stopped complaining when Carolyn made them bunk together. 

"That's a long time to build up resentment, sweetheart," Douglas said. "Bit unfair for all parties concerned, don't you think?"

"I know," Martin said. "So I'm being honest now. I don't think you'd be honest ever."

Douglas went up the stairs into the living room, knowing Martin would follow. They sat opposite one another in the stout, saggy arm chairs that dwarfed Martin, who pulled up his legs and curled into the plush back. 

"What am I not telling you, Martin?" Douglas said.

Martin shrugged. "Nothing. I didn't mean it. I think I might be a little pregnancy-crazy tonight."

"Oh, no, couldn't be," Douglas said. Martin made a face. "What are you  _afraid_ of, then?"

Martin snorted. "Um, everything?"

"Besides that."

Martin rested his head on his hands, closing his eyes, and it occured to Douglas that the man was probably genuinely exhausted.

"Being alone," he finally said. "Being homeless with a baby. Realizing a year from now that I made a selfish decision with my heart because I let some -- some _alpha_ influence me rather than do the merciful, sensible thing while I could." He touched his chest, his stomach. "Did I ever tell you, I used to be a cashier at a grocery store? I'd see so many kids -- stupid, young omegas -- with their baby carriages shopping with their mums or grans, paying with STOC cards and they just looked like _how has this become my life_." Martin stared at the shelf high on Douglas' wall. He had a wooden owl up there, genuine antique, from hunting days.

Something in Douglas' chest felt awful and tight. He slid out of his chair and kneed across the carpet. Martin dropped his feet onto the floor beside his thighs and Douglas held both his slim hands. 

"Martin, I wish I could tell you that I love you, but we know that's not how things are."

"I know," Martin whispered.

"But, listen, you are the most important person to me right now. You are in my life and I am in yours, all right? I do love our child, and I will absolutely not abandon it, or you. Do you believe me?"

Martin closed his eyes. Moisture glistened in the lashes. "I believe that you believe it. But what if --"

"Martin, you're moving in with me."

His eyes snapped open. "What? No, I'm not."

Douglas stood, leaning heavily on the chair arms. He was too old for kneeling. Babies don't require kneeling, as he recalled. "Don't be absurd, you can't bring a child into that airing cupboard you call a flat. You killed your ficus."

Martin stood up, huffy. And so the bickerment commenced.

It felt good. An argument was like a summer storm at the end of a week of high humidity, blowing out the bad air, in the good air. He hadn't really  _fought_ with Martin in months, just these little  _pas-de-deux_ that bright up Martin's color and made his own hands empty for holding another warm body.

They ended up in the bedroom.

Afterwards, Martin fled to the shower and Douglas fixed the bed so they could get in it. When he came back, he was dew damp and smelled like soap and omega flush. Martin collapsed into the pillows and Douglas' chest, moaning in pleasure. 

"I feel so relaxed," Martin said. "I hope I don't throw up tomorrow."

Douglas snuffled at his neck. "Shall I take that as a compliment?"

Martin waved an arm. "Morning sickness. Every day at dawn for the past week."

Douglas felt Martin's bare stomach. He couldn't tell if there was a change, Martin was always fit through the middle. "I haven't asked you, in all the melodrama -- what're you feeling?"

Martin wriggled his bum into Douglas' groin. "Fine. Healthy. Less depressed than usual. Actually, um, my doctor says I should wean off my antidepressants over the next few weeks. He says they're not good for the baby, but it's worse to quit cold turkey."

Douglas kissed his neck. "I didn't know you took antidepressants."

"Oh. I thought -- "

"I'm aware you carry medication, but I never thought it polite to pry."

"Oh. Well, yes, I do. Have done for, God, years. It's, um, no big deal. Lots of people do."

Douglas nodded. Thought. Spoke. "I have done. In the past. Ah, about, '03? When my second marriage broke up and my wife took my daughter. . . . Well. It wasn't a happy time and it seemed to come down to either the pills or the booze." His heart was pounding, though knew how to keep it conversational.

Martin kissed his knuckles. "I didn't know."

"I know," he replied. "I took them for about two years and things got better. Haven't had to again." He could say almost anything in the dark, Douglas thought. They were different people here. 

Douglas realized he'd been idly stroking Martin's stomach, caressing the smooth skin just below his naval, where an hour ago he'd pressed his lips reverently and then felt silly for doing so. He could feel a difference, he thought -- a deep, internal firmness, not muscular. Douglas covered the spot with his palm and Martin held his hand securely. 

"Why do you think it's a girl?" Douglas asked the question he'd been wanting to ask all day, but was surprised by his own genuine, dreamy curiosity.

"My mum said men throw up more for girl babies than boys. She said she hardly felt sick at all for my sister, but my uncle was as sick as I am for my girl cousins. Also, just, little things. How I feel. The foods I want. I just feel estrogen-y, I guess."

Douglas closed his eyes and imagined, unbidden, his daughter located somewhere beneath their  palms, a pink thing with a dolly, impatiently kicking about in a slurpy pool of amniotic fluid. He may not have been entirely of the cognizant world.

"You're going to make fun of me, aren't you?" Martin's voice jolted him.

"What, for 'feeling estrogen-y'?" Douglas was instantly awake. "It does seem like I really should, doesn't it?"

Martin elbowed him. Douglas curled around him, immobilizing all dangerous Crieffien outcroppings.

"I guess we'll have to wait and see."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up STOC. I know England doesn't have WIC (women, infants, and children) or SNAP (food stamps), but I imagined that in the omegaverse, there would be govn't programs to assist downtrodden omegas. STOC = State T??? Omegas and Children. Govn't programs like their snappy-sounding acronyms.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is there something you want to tell me?

Martin tiptoed across the hall and closed the bedroom door as gently as possible. Douglas still didn't know he did this. He eased into the bed, draping himself full-body over the mattress so no one point of contact could compress any single, noisy spring. He set his genuine Swatch to beep in thirty minutes. Douglas would hear the tiny alarm in his sleep and think he'd woken up on his own.

Martin would wake with a thirty-minutes-slept-in mouth. Just enough time to wear out the obvious mintiness, but not so long that he tasted truly horrible.

<|>

Douglas' kitchen reminded Martin of being home, except none he'd actually lived in. A television home, the kind of program where cosmopolitan people sat around beautifully set tables with unique dishes and the right wine, and talked about important local celebrities they knew personally. There were a lot of tasteful neutrals, stoneware, and heavy utensils that stated "someone paid 500% more than they should have."

This could be a beautiful life, if I wanted it, Martin thought. He could have it for the both of them -- he had to start thinking of his future in 'we', or at least 'me and a half.'

He made breakfast. He was well practiced at breakfast because in Martin's world, breakfast was a hot and filling dinner. He didn't feel sick at all today and pondered if alpha hormones were good for all those things the magazines said they were -- relaxation, nesting, even normal development of the fetus. The whole world was screaming at him to partner up fast, son, or you'll ruin your baby before it's even taken its first breath!

Some omegas were truly pathetic. Martin was dreading seeing his parents. Mum praised him constantly for getting a job with pilots because "maybe you'll find yourself a nice alpha." He'd practically had to run away to apply to flight school, and when he didn't get in, his parents tried to console him by signing him up for a match-making service. It wasn't that they didn't care about his dreams, they just thought . . . well, you're an omega, son, so what's the point?

Thumps and groans sounded from down the hall. A little bit of a crash. The dragon stirred. Douglas was hilariously uncoordinated when he pulled himself out of bed in the morning. Sometimes he just sat on the end of the bed and scrubbed at his face and hair, seeming to wait for Martin to bring him a coffee or something. Maybe that's what his wives had done? Maybe that's what Martin would be doing for the rest of his life.

Maybe carrying a morning coffee a few feet down a hall wasn't so big a deal in exchange for companionship, financial security, and regular sex.

"What's this?" Douglas said when he came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a dressing gown, brushed and smiling and brighter around the eyes than someone who had just rolled out of bed ought.

"Just eggs in a basket." Martin unveiled them with a slight flourish.

Douglas kissed his neck. "Smells yum, ta, my dear. Oo -- but not as good as you do." Douglas nosed along his ear, back into his hairline. "What's that you're wearing?"

Martin bobbled the pan back to the stove. "Just me, I guess." He'd never been sniffed when he wasn't in heat.

"No, really, you smell amazing. C'mere."

Martin sighed and set the plates on the table. Alphas and their obsessions. Arms at his sides, he submitted to an inspection. Douglas held him close, sniffing his neck and kissing down his throat. He started to get obvious Intentions as his ministrations began to get pointed. Martin pushed away -- he was hungry, dammit, and he was not leaving this kitchen until he ate.

"Sorry." Lightly, Douglas added, "I guess we know it's mine."

Martin sat at the table with his eggs and sent Douglas an authoritative _look_. "Of course it's yours, are you even questioning that in your disreputable mind?"

Douglas went for the coffee. "I was only joking, Martin. No need to jump down my throat first thing in the morning."

Martin closed his eyes. He took a large bite so he couldn't talk. Douglas set out the coffees and fruit salad while Martin flicked on Radio 4.

"So, we're off today," Douglas said.

"As the wall chart has decreed, we are." Martin smiled to be pleasant. He didn't really want to fight on his first non-pukey morning in recent memory.

"Any plans?"

Martin had been debating the answer to this inevitable question all morning. The words flew from his mouth on their own, recklessly endangering his peace of mind. "I have a doctor's appointment. You can come, if you like. Actually, you probably should, most fathers do."

A piece of orange speared together with a banana disc hovered in space before Douglas' mouth. His eyes were wide and dark. "I -- I see. Is this for a sono--?"

"Ultrasound."

"An ultrasound. Okay."

"So you'll come?"

Douglas ate the fruit and chewed thoughtfully. Nodding, he said, "Yes. Of course. What time is it?"

"Actually, I was going to leave right after breakfast, but I suppose you'll want to drive instead of taking the bus."

Douglas blinked. Martin watched him understand the difference in their worlds, of conserving petrol, of factoring in third party transportation, of a life without your expensive _toy_ to zip you whenever you want to go.

"We'll leave in an hour," Martin supplied, knowing he'd never guess accurately.

"Yes, okay," Douglas said as if it was his idea. "That sounds fine."

Martin rolled his eyes and drank his coffee.

"So . . . this is your first appointment?" Douglas said.

"No, second," Martin said. "First was when I went in for a proper pregnancy test. They gave me a regular check-up and prescribed vitamins and gave me loads of pamphlets." He looked ruefully at the coffee. "I'm supposed to be cutting back on this, too."

"I don't remember my second wife getting an ultrasound so soon, at two weeks. That's what you told me, right? Because, I've never heard of anyone even realizing they were pregnant that early."

Martin pushed the mug away. He didn't want it anymore. "I said two months, didn't I? I meant to say two months. Sorry."

"Martin."

Awful things were happening in his stomach. Douglas knew.

"How pregnant are you?" Douglas set down his fork. "You may as well tell me, if I'm going to the obstetrician's with you today."

Martin looked at the dishes on the stove, thinking about drowning himself along with them in the sink. "Two months." He flicked his eyes back at Douglas, who was impassive. "But I've only known for three weeks, I swear."

" _Three_ weeks! I can't _believe_ \--"

"I'm sorry! I couldn't tell you!"

"Why the hell not?"

Martin grabbed his coffee mug again. Some of it sloshed on the table runner. "I couldn't. I -- I needed to think about it on my own -- about _my own body_ , thank you very much -- before I could decide what to tell _you_."

Douglas looked tired, dejected, but not all that angry. "You were deciding if you could slip off and have a quiet abortion on your own, and come back with me none the wiser?"

Martin set the mug down. "It seemed the best plan at the time. Why open up a whole kettle of worms for something that didn't have to exist?"

 Douglas had the strangest expression. "What changed your mind?"

Martin thought. Things were such a blur from those first days, from suspecting to knowing to blind panic. He felt like a different person just a few weeks ago. "I don't know. I just did."

Douglas sighed. He went around the table and collected the dishes thoughtfully. "Thank you, then, for telling me. And for letting me . . . be with you, I suppose. Even if you had decided not to keep it."

He stood with his back to Martin, filling the sink with hot, sudsy water. Martin couldn't say anything. Douglas looked upset and he didn't know why. He was the mum, it was his prerogative to take some time, after all.

"Why don't you go get a shower so I'll have enough time after you?" Douglas said. "You'll be faster, since you already brushed your teeth." He winked at Martin over his shoulder.

Martin could have smacked him.

<|>

 Martin had nothing to wear to the obstetrician's other than what he'd packed in his flight bag, so he ran a load of his and Douglas' laundry while the man showered, trying not to be seduced by the ease of an in-house washer/dryer. (Kids were always messing their clothes. . . .) Not to mention the way the Lexus' bucket seats caressed his sore back, mindful of how he'd been dreading the bus. Of course he couldn't raise a child in his horrid attic, not with students polluting the place with their youth and music, but he could find something he could afford, maybe a nice family who were renting an in-law suite.

Which meant he'd be living with someone else's family in suburban Fitton. Their kids, their drama, their marital woes. Maybe they would think omegas should do all the cleaning or submit to the house alpha, or they'd try to meddle with his independence. . . .

The only reason he'd slept with Douglas in the first place was that when he'd walked in on Douglas and Helena's anniversary, he'd realized that Helena was very obviously an alpha herself. If Douglas was bisexual, then clearly he didn't have the same prejudices about "traditional" roles of omegas or "the natural" domination by alphas that conservative pundits were trying to make law. A sexual relationship with Douglas was easy, low pressure, and most importantly, polygamous. He'd been amazed it lasted longer than the one time, but Douglas kept knocking on his door or sitting on the edge of his bed in a shared hotel room -- at first only once in a while, but then the visits came only days apart.

So of course the night he left his birth control pills at home for a stupidly long trip, Douglas was already imprinted in his skin and his mind, his senses, and there was no discussion. It just happened. For two controlled and planned people, they'd picked a catastrophic opportunity to give in to base urges.

Martin looked out the window and wondered if he would ever be in love. He didn't think he had ever been. He'd had boyfriends of whom he was fond, and he'd waited for those relationships to feel sure and true instead of one big question. He wondered now if he'd thrown aside the right guy because of his tendency to overanalyze and mistrust.

But Douglas? Surely he wasn't Martin's destiny. He was downright horrible sometimes! He smuggled! He had three ex wives!

 _He's here,_ Martin thought. _How many guys would have dropped you off at the abortionist with a 'good luck, honey,' and been relieved to have it off their conscience?_

95% of life was just showing up.

'But your father and your mother said we'd learn to love each other . . .' From the musical about a Russian Jewish alpha to whom God bestowed an overabundance of omega children.

_I don't think they call them abortionists anymore._

Martin reached across the console, where Douglas' hand rested as they waited at a red light, and squeezed it. The rain spattered the roof of the car and the turn lane sprayed a puddle against his side, and the whole, cold world disappeared beyond the snug cab. Douglas smiled and folded their fingers together. Martin braced his elbow on the console and leaned up to kiss him, right there, in traffic. Surprised, Douglas kissed him back.

The car behind them honked.

Douglas put the car in gear. "What was that?"

Martin shook his head. "Hormones." 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Will Douglas go with Martin to doctor's appointments?" - someone in one of the comments that got deleted. Yes, yes he will.
> 
> Now with telling traces of plot!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Medical abuse? Insensitive OB? Not sure, but this may not be your thing if you have issues with consent. No physical or verbal violence or rape.

Douglas ran his fingers through his storm dampened hair as he waited for the nurse to allow him into Martin's exam room. The nurse was in with him now, helping him get sorted, he had been told; Douglas couldn't guess what omega esoterica was going on behind that door. Probably talking about sore nipples.

 "Hallo, is that you, Douglas?"

Douglas turned, surprised by the puffy businessman rounding the mauve hall.

"Bobby, hi," he greeted.

Bobby Cosas, older and oilier, shook his hand. "So, what brings you here? Can't be expecting again, at your age?"

Douglas hefted up his socially polite chuckle. "Well, my partner is. We're getting a first look at the little guy today."

Bobby cuffed him on the arm to show it was all between mates, that age comment. "Congratulations! Well, if da Vinci could have them at seventy, eh?"

Douglas edged down the hall, watching the handle on Martin's door. "I think you'll find that was Van Gogh. Da Vinci was a gay omega."

"Well, whatever. So, how's Air England? You wouldn't believe that week I've had. . . ."

Bobby was archeological evidence that Douglas' history included bars where guys like Bobby frequented. Last Douglas heard, he'd gotten caught fiddling with the company software and been out of the loop for a year, less with good behavior.

The man was blood-shot, grey haired, and dripped confidence. " . . . so I told him, if you're going to leave your back door wide open, naturally the scum from 4Chan are going to shake down your infrastructure."

Douglas had been listening to _Aida_ in his head. "Oh. Yes. Of course, infrastructures . . . need to be protected. So, you say you flew to San Francisco to give that talk?"

"I fly all over the bloody world at half a moment's notice."

"Interesting."

Douglas reached for the exam door handle, anticipating the nurse, but the door was still locked. He reached into his jacket pocket, knowing he never went about without his business cards.

Bobby clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, anyway. Since you asked, or actually didn't, I'm here with my daughter."

Douglas hadn't asked for the same reason you don't go turning over stones in a swamp. "Really. I didn't expect --" _that lizards like Bobby kept track of their eggs after they hatched_. "-- that you could possibly be a granddad already."

"I shouldn't be. She's bloody seventeen. So I sure as hell won't be!"

Douglas picked up a pamphlet from a display on the wall, curling the edges. "I see. Well. Best of luck with that." He dug in his jacket and produced his card holder.

The nurse opened the door. Bobby was still talking.

"Listen, Bobby, I fly for a small, charter company --"

"Mr. Richardson," the nurse said, "we're ready for you."

"Ah -- yes," Douglas said to her, backing into the open door. Bobby wouldn't shut up about 'diluting the inheritance', all he wanted was to give the man MJN's damn phone number.

Bobby followed Douglas, edging over the threshold into the exam room. Behind him, Martin yelped an "Ex _cuse_ me!"

"Listen, Douglas," Bobby was saying, "these kids, they don't know what they're about --"

"Douglas," Captain Crieff ordered, "this is an _examination_ room!"

Douglas glanced at Martin. He'd pulled his sheet up to his chin and was firing daggers at Bobby. Douglas flashed Martin a reassuring smile, which only earned him his own dose of nasty looks.

Douglas shoved the card into Bobby's hand, maneuvered him to the opposite side of the door, and closed it. Bobby's voice carried in from the hall, asking a nurse what was taking his daughter so long. Douglas leaned against the door, none too keen to approach Martin. The man was hiding under the sheet like a princess on her wedding night, glaring at him.

"Apologies, Martin. Old friend. Or something like that."

Martin adjusted the sheet to less than Victorian levels of coverage. His sole attire appeared to be an open front gown that exposed his freckly belly.

"I don't think this is the best time for business deals," Martin said primly.

Douglas took the chair by the bed. Martin seemed to flinch, pulling the sheets higher. "You're right, deepest apologies." He patted Martin's thigh; Martin definitely flinched at that. "Are you all right?"

"Fine. I just hate doctors."

"Why?"

"Doesn't everyone? They make you get naked and poke you and then just leave you in here alone."

"You're not alone now."

"After they've made me feel icky."

"What do you mean?"

Martin folded his arms and looked over Douglas' shoulder. "They gave me a, um, an -- you know, they're going to do the internal, the vaginal scan."

Douglas' eyebrows shot up. "Oh." He glanced at the transducers clipped to the ultrasound cart. One of them was very long, not that slim, and ball-jointed. "At the risk of being indelicate, how are they going to shove that up inside your pu-- vagina when you're not in heat?"

Martin flushed. "They already, you know, cleaned me out?" Douglas nodded. "And then they injected some hormone cocktail plus lidocaine in my Master's valve to dilate it and thin the mucus plug, just like during heat and birth. So my lower, you know, intestines are clenching. I'm feeling quite a bit uncomfortable."

"Pain?"

"Just, my stomach. Normally, when the valve opens for heat," Martin mimed it, with a fist closed and then held loosely, "all these hormones and dopamine and endorphins halt digestion and you just don't care about your stomach. I may also have ignored what they told me about only eating a light breakfast."

"Oh, Martin," he chided gently. "You have to do what the doctors tell you to do."

"I know! I didn't think a little piece of toast and an egg would make me feel this sick. I was just so hungry after a week of throwing up."

He looked so miserable, Douglas couldn't stay irritated. "Why don't you lie back? They're probably going to make us wait a while."

Ignoring the insistence that he was "fine," Douglas helped Martin lean back, covering him in the sheets and fetching him a tiny, disposable pillow from a cupboard. Martin rolled onto his side, facing the windows, and curled around his stomach. Douglas rubbed his back through the old fashioned, thick, well laundered linen gown. He could sympathize; being at the mercy of doctors and drugs was a terrible, frustrating feeling.

They waited for almost forty minutes. A nurse popped in once to check how Martin was dilating. A wide, wet spot had gathered on the towel they'd placed between his legs, much to his embarrassment, so the nurse could request the doctor to get the hell in here soon. Meanwhile, the nurse gave him a bicarbonate and sent him for another pee. When he returned, Martin said the nausea was abating.

Martin meekly participated in a round of James Bond Doomsday Devices that Could Be Built with Implements Found in This Room, a game at which he usually surpassed Douglas for sneakiness if not creativity.

"You know," Douglas said, "with my luck and your obsession with numbers, the day you and I became high stakes jewel thieves is the day _ante_ we buy a small island, steal GERTI, and spend our days lazing on the beach like clubbed sea lions. The only tricky thing is making Arthur the unknowing patsy."

"Very funny." Martin said from the depth of a glassy-eyed stare. His hands were making biscuits in the mattress.

Douglas touched his arm; his skin was hot. "How do you feel?"

"Better. It's . . . not really _nausea_."

"Oh?" Douglas said innocently, as if he hadn't noticed the dilated eyes and sheen of sweat broken out on Martin's upper lip. His knees were splayed out on the bed under that sheet and his hips were -- _stop it_ , Douglas told himself. We're in a doctor's office.

Martin tossed his head, looking up at the ceiling, then at Douglas. "Do -- do you think we can go straight home after this?"

Douglas badly wanted to touch him, but didn't dare. Instead, he draped his jacket over his lap. "Whatever you want, darling."

The doctor rapped on the door, finally.

She was a tall woman with long red hair twisted up in a clip. Douglas sized her up, from her blue scrubs to her trainers, lack of jewelry, and guessed alpha. Omegas weren't accepted to medical school and betas generally went the support staff route -- nurses, techs. But given the way she was hiding her gender, her bearing came off as neutral as oatmeal, so he hoped Martin would give up his death clutch on the sheet.

 She introduced herself as "Doctor Oswald, but my patients all call me Jenna."

"Hi." Martin reached out of his cottony protective shield for a whole ten seconds to shake her hand.

"How are you feeling, Martin?" 'Doctor Jenna' gently prodded Martin onto his back and opened the front of his gown. She was reading from one of those giant computer pad things as she talked.

"Good. Better now. I was throwing up every morning earlier this week, but it's seemed to go away now."

Jenna marked something down on her space-chart. "And what do you think prompted the change?"

Martin hesitated and looked at Douglas.

"Well, he and I had a bit of a tiff," Douglas said. "But it's all better now, and I thought -- not to be the doctor here -- but _we thought_ that, isn't it true that being exposed to an alpha's pheromones during sex can make a pregnant omega feel in tip top shape?"

Jenna nodded. "I see. Well, there is a degree of truth to that old mum's tale. Martin, do you agree with Douglas?"

Martin shrugged. "I did feel better for the first time in days the morning after Douglas and I, um, spent the night together."

"And you hadn't had any sexual contact before then?"

"No," Martin said.

"For how long?"

Martin paused.

"Probably since he got pregnant," Douglas said. "About two months?"

Jenna stood, her smile bright and brittle. "I see. Douglas, would you mind terribly waiting outside for just a few minutes?"

"Oh? No, I suppose not. Is everything okay?"

Martin looked up at the ceiling, miserable.

"Everything's fine," Jenna said, "I'd just like to speak to Martin alone. Please, it's office policy."

Douglas felt like he was in trouble, but he couldn't think of a thing he'd done wrong. He obediently let himself be shepherded out of the room.

In the hall, he paced.

He looked at the literature hanging on the walls. A distressing number of posters reminded omegas -- always young, white, female -- how to escape the clutches of an abusive alpha father or boyfriend.  There was a poster advertising a fertility drug for couples going the insemination route: white couple, proud male alpha possessively holding his overjoyed, pregnant female omega.

He had honestly thought he'd missed the boat on having any more babies, and had locked the thought always in some hopeless hope trunk in his mind's attic. As he stared at a fully formed fetus, curled up like a lima bean inside his mummy, his fist tucked under his chin, Douglas realized just how much energy he'd been expending trying not to think about children at all. How much he missed Mattie. How angry he was at Chloe, Mattie's mother. How angry he could get at Martin when the man talked about abortion, fear, distrusting Douglas as a competent father because it _hadn't been his fault_ , _dammit_ , he hadn't gotten a chance.

He realized what was being discussed that exam room. Doctor Jenna saw a hormone riddled, nervous omega, a big age gap in their relationship, and overinflated a report of a little tiff. Martin was an omega, he ought to be owning and fucking him every day. What was she talking him into? Or out of? For fuck's sake, he'd never abused Martin in any way and he never could. He should just go in there and tell that woman --

"Mr. Richardson?"

And there she was. He was allowed back into the inner sanctum. Gathering up his dignity, Douglas nodded politely to her and took his seat beside _his_ _boyfriend_. Martin seemed rattled and distracted. Douglas picked up the hand that curled over his bare chest.

"Everything okay, sweetheart?"

Martin laced their fingers together and squeezed. "I'm fine, Douglas."

"Good."

"I think we're ready to get started," Jenna said.

She lowered the blinds and dimmed the lights, and the machine's monitor glowed in the dim room. She angled the screen so both men could see, if Douglas moved his chair and leaned, brushing up against Martin, aware of the false production of pheromones radiating from him. Douglas rubbed his arm absently as the doctor waved the transducer in the pool of gel on Martin's bare stomach. Blobs of dark and light glooped on the screen like oil under a microscope.

"Is that my guts?" Martin asked.

Jenna pointed. "Mmhmm. This darkness is your bladder -- oh, looks like you have to pee again."

"I don't feel like I do. Can you really see it?"

Douglas could, the greyish fluid sloshing at the base of the black circle between the viscera. He wasn't sure how much Martin was taking in. It took a bit of practice to get the hang of these things, like parsing modern art.

"And . . . here's your left ovary, very healthy."

Martin watched, fascinated, as Jenna pressed the transducer into his belly and tapped the keyboard. She wasn't just looking for a baby, but for any abnormalities in Martin's internal organs, and she had to document everything. The anticipation was irritating.

"And here's your uterus," she finally said.

Douglas perked up. Martin strained to see.

"Let's see where he or she is hiding." Jenna rolled the transducer in Martin's belly, making him wince. "Sorry about that," she said.

"It's okay," Martin said.

Douglas squinted, watching the blobs. Yes, he could tell she was zooming in on Martin's uterus now, clearly hovering -- oh. He leaned in.

"What?" Martin said.

"There's your baby," Jenna said.

"Where?" Martin asked frantically.

"She's right there," Douglas pointed.

Jenna waved the mouse around the two lumps. "See? This oval? That's the head, and that's the spine, and . . ." she curved the transducer into Martin's pubic bone, ". . . there's the heart."

"She's got a heart," Martin breathed.

"And a spine." Douglas squinted at the blobs. He could see it, kind of.

"Don't worry, we'll send you a video to your email," Jenna said. "The heartbeat is pretty fast, at one-sixty-nine, but that's okay given the drugs in your system right now. And I don't see anything abnormal. But I still want to do the vaginal just to be sure. Are you ready for that?"

Martin didn't look pleased, but he nodded.

"Can you leave that up a second?" Douglas said, surprised by his own request.

While Jenna helped Martin scoot down to the very end of the table, and drape his calves in the stirrups, Douglas stared at his baby on the screen. There wasn't much to see, really. He'd looked at the full color portraits in the hall; Baby Girl Crieff-Richardson (?) should have looked like a rolled bit of clay with arm-stubs stuck on and a tail. She might still have gills. But the monitor said her heart was beating, and she was whole and safe and real and -- oh Lord, he was leaking now. Silly old man.

He turned away from Martin, shoving at his eyes with the edge of his palm.

"Oh, Douglas," Martin cooed.

"Sorry, Martin. It's ridiculous, I know. It's just an ultrasound and she looks more like something you'd put on an onigiri roll than something you'd dress up and diaper and take photos of."

Doctor Jenna looked horrified.

Martin laughed. "You dear, old sod. Don't get me going now."

In the glow of the monitor, Martin's eyes shimmered bright, as well. He rolled his chair down to Martin's side and kissed his forehead. He felt fingers in his hair, skritching his scalp. Douglas could smell his hair,  comforting _eau de_ pregnant omega with notes of something that made him think _mine._

"Do you want to insert the wand yourself, Martin?" Jenna said.

"Douglas can do it," Martin said. He looked up at him. "Do you mind? I don't feel like sitting up."

Feeling like he'd been handed a boatload of alpha responsibility, Douglas moved down to the end of the table, and was shown the whole male omega birth preview. Martin's legs were hoisted up and beneath the drape was the entire business end of the baby-shoving area, wasn't it? The doctor had clamped his buttocks open with some medieval looking device, and he was already gaping, and very slick.

Martin's vestigial midline was sharply separated and held by the clamp, that evolutionary leftover from when the mythical "female" gender split into omegas and betas sometime in humans' furry days. Betas didn't have the 'Eve' mitochondrial DNA, Douglas had just read in the news the other day, for what that was worth, and Martin had a cock but not testicles, but betas males did and females of any gender had ovaries. The breakthrough for oral contraceptive came when it was discovered that omega male ovaries produced both eggs and androzone, a masculine hormone only omegas produce.

He took the wand from Jenna and sat on the low stool between Martin's legs.

"Most people find this very invasive the first time," Jenna warned Douglas. He wanted to tell her it wasn't Martin's _hundredth_ time taking something up his bum, but he realized: first time having a doctor poke around inside while he lay helpless on a cot. Douglas thought of Bobby's daughter, alone in a room, listening to her angry father in the hall.

"Only insert it this far," Jenna tapped her gloved nail on a pink band about two inches down the device's neck. "And then let me take over, okay?"

Douglas nodded.  "Do you have any lubrication?"

Jenna looked confused. "Does he need it?"

Douglas leaned away from Martin, suddenly annoyed.

He said quietly, "I'm not putting anything inside him without it, and no one ever should."

Jenna handed over a bottle. "Sorry. It's our policy that omegas usually produce it on their own."

Douglas decided to let it pass, and lubed up the device as he would any sex toy. He put the required glove on his right hand and touched Martin's thigh with his left. He looked over the drape, catching Martin's eyes. He seemed spacey, tired, the way he looked when he'd spent too much time being nice to passengers he'd really rather be rid of. He nodded.

The first half inch of the wand was tapered, but the sadists who designed it obviously didn't bother to consult any sex toy designers; it abruptly widened to penis-width to accommodate the electronics or whatever inside. It slid in easily anyway, due to Martin's state. Douglas got out of the way, and watched Jenna slide the thing deeply, reaching into Martin's vagina. She was gentle and slow, at least. As Douglas sat down, Martin ' _hmmm_ 'd.

"What kind of hormones has he been given?" Douglas said.

"Just a very low dose of androzone and estrogen," Jenna said. "Don't worry, we see this every day. It's just a little medically induced heat. You'll be able to take him home and enjoy it, and he'll be back to normal by dinnertime."

"Those are pregnancy _prevention_ hormones," Douglas said. "Isn't it dangerous to give a pregnant man hormones like that?"

Jenna smiled. "A lot of my patients have that concern, but I absolutely promise you, we wouldn't give him anything dangerous. It's a very, very low dose, I never give any unnecessary drugs."

Martin took Douglas' hand and pulled it across his stomach. "I'm okay, Douglas."

Of course he was okay, he was dancing the sex hormone fandango. What a clever way to keep omegas happy and compliant, just dose them up good with sex hormones and they'll agree to whatever you want.

The screen came to life again.

Martin winced. He was looking at the screen, but clearly not as interested this time. Douglas was too distracted to get a good look. 

"Try not to clamp down, Martin," Jenna said with a smile.

"I'm not," he said.

The blobs on the screen moved, and Jenna tapped the keyboard with her free hand. The hand between Martin's legs was making wide swipes.

"Ugh." Martin crossed his arm over his eyes.

"What's wrong?" Douglas said.

"She's hitting my cervix. All the blood just went out of my head. Think I might puke."

Jenna reached one handed and passed a kidney bowl to Douglas. He tucked it under Martin's chin.

"Is there any way you can speed this up?" Douglas said.

"Sorry," Jenna said. "I'm trying to be gentle, Martin. I'm done with your cervix, I can back off a little. Is that better?"

"No."

Jenna shook her head, flashing a forced smile. "Okay, just bear with me a few more minutes, Martin, we need to get pictures of everything. Can you relax your muscles a little? Usually omegas enjoy this part."

Douglas stared, blinking. He wasn't sure what he was offended by, exactly. That this chatty alpha thought she knew what Martin ought to enjoy, or that she thought she could _fuck his boyfriend_ with her stupid wand and he was supposed to like it. Martin looked only nauseous and miserable. He wasn't sure if he was paying attention to the cesspool coming from the woman's mouth.

"Have you taken the video?" Douglas said, hoping she'd take the hint.

"Just a second," she said.

Douglas didn't give a fuck what she was still doing in there. Martin was sick and they'd gotten what they'd come for. He'd like to wrap Martin up in that sheet and carry him out in a fireman haul. But then, what if her rota-rooting Martin's guts turned up something that needed to be caught early? So he waited, and held Martin's hand, and grew more furious as five minutes passed, ten, fifteen.

"How much longer?" Douglas finally said. Despite his tendency to get what he wanted, it wasn't in his nature to be _rude_.

Jenna looked away from the screen, surprised. "Oh -- I was just trying to get some good pictures for you. Are you in a hurry?" Translation: are you sociopaths who don't care about images of your baby?

Douglas glanced at Martin. "I just think he's not feeling well."

"I'm not," Martin mumbled. "'m gonna faint. I have an inner ear . . ."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Jenna said. "You should have said that you were that sick, Martin. Was it from pushing against your cervix? Some omegas get a CNS reaction from that."

Douglas goggled at her sudden ability to pretend to care, now that she had drawn out the torture and made her point. The wand was eased out of Martin's body and his legs let down from the stirrups. She handed him a towel to clean up the lube, which Douglas took and pointedly eyed her toward the door.

"I'll just get these ready to go, then. Martin, there's a water cooler in the hall, make sure you get some. You can rest here for a bit --"

"Yes, thank you." Douglas ushered her to the door. He closed and locked it behind her.

Martin curled onto his side, pressing his face to the edge of the enamel kidney bowl. "We have to talk to her about the results," he said.

Wee wax paper cups were stacked by the hand washing sink. Douglas filled three of them and brought them to the exam bed, setting them in the kidney bowl. Martin leaned on his elbow, holding one of the cups in his long fingered hand. He drew the sheet around his hips, looking cold and uncomfortable. Douglas hitched up onto the bed beside him.

"I can't believe the nerve of that alpha," Douglas said. "I'll come with you to all of these, I promise."

Martin gripped Douglas' leg where it leaned crooked against Martin's thigh. "Douglas. You can't protect me from the world. Things like this happen to omegas all the time. I appreciate you helping and I'm frankly amazed you even noticed that she was being inappropriate. Most people just think it's the way the world should work. Besides, she's a beta."

Douglas frowned. "No. She can't possibly."

Martin shrugged. "I requested a beta doctor. And I'm in heat, I think I'd know. It's -- didn't you see those posters in the hall? By shear statistics, half the people who made those posters and hung them up are betas. It's our culture."

Douglas sighed, and refilled the cups of water.

<|>

Outside in the parking lot, after the meeting with Doctor Jenna that was largely obvious and useless, they watched the video on Douglas' phone. The rain had stopped and chill, watery sunlight broke through the clouds.

"Can you feel anything?" Douglas said as he watched the lumps twitch.

"No," Martin said. "The book says not for another month at least."

Douglas looked at him. "You've got a book?"

Martin leaned over the console and smoothed imaginary lint from Douglas' jacket. "I thought . . . just in case, if it looks like . . . like you were going to be around. If, for once in my life, good things happened to Martin Crieff. I'd prefer to be prepared. Not that I'm asking you to be around. I'm perfectly capable of doing what's necessary on my own."

Douglas wrapped his arm around Martin, as best as possible over the console, and kissed his forehead. Martin's arms came around his neck and they broke only to come together again, kissing properly. They kissed until Douglas' hands were buried in Martin's hair and Martin sighed the same little noise he made in the office.

"Martin." His voice sounded deep and craggy. "I will absolutely be around. Wild griffins couldn't spook me off."

"I know."

They looked one another in the eye, breathing hard. "Really?" Douglas said.

"Yes," Martin said. "If you're saying it, then yes."

Douglas could feel his heart pounding in his throat. He thought he knew what Martin was saying, but he was afraid to ask. If he somehow was following this all wrong, if Martin still didn't want a baby, or didn't want _him_ . . .

"I think," Martin swirled the dregs of the tea he made in the office, "I don't think I ever wanted to -- to get rid of it. I want it, Douglas. I really, really want to be a mum. But on paper, it's just such a bad idea, and how can you argue with cold, hard figures?"

Martin looked up at him with scared eyes, and Douglas understood. Martin wanted him to _be the alpha_ , he just didn't know it.  Or, maybe, didn't like it.

"Martin, if you would move in with me --"

"No. I can't do that."

"But why not?"

"Because we're not a couple, Douglas! This isn't the nineteenth century, I can't become your kept omega. You would resent me and I would hate my life. I _need_ my own space, please, love -- I mean it."

Douglas sighed. That was the first time Martin called him a term of endearment. Martin had been fighting him all this time, grudgingly accepting whatever affection Douglas showed him like an ornery cat that kept coming back to be petted, only to turn around and scratch when the petting didn't fit his constructs. Douglas didn't know what he did to offend Martin time after time, but he knew the boy hid behind walls a mile thick.

"At least let me help you," Douglas said. "You can't stay in that attic, it's probably full of lead and mold and syphilis in the water table."

Martin snorted. "Yes, from the flushed condoms. God, I would love to get out of there."

"So we'll go apartment hunting?"

Martin sighed. "I guess I don't have much choice. Just about any apartment complex a shade above horrible will want an alpha co-signer. My credit rating is sort of disreputable."

"Why?"

"I may or may not be still paying off those seven goes plus flight lessons on a high interest credit card?"

"Oh, Martin."

"You do what you have to do, Douglas."

Douglas reached over and smoothed a curl back from his forehead. Martin let him, and then let him kiss him.

"You really have done, haven't you?" Douglas said.

The way Martin looked him over, Douglas felt suddenly naked. It was a thrilling charge, to be so scrutinized.

When they got home, Douglas tugged him aside against the garden wall. Martin squeaked, and Douglas covered his body flush against him and kissed the living daylights out of him. Martin groaned and shoved their hips together, threading his fingers through Douglas' hair, and let him twine their legs together. The bricks radiated heat and the flower beds smelled of moist earth as they kissed.

Martin pulled back, looking up at Douglas with a goofy half-smile. Douglas kissed his nose.

"Hey," Douglas said. "We're having a baby."

"Yeah," Martin said against his lips. "I think we are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re fertility drug: I know you don't have direct to consumer drug marketing in the UK. Omegaverse is a bit of a dystopia. Idea is that omegas are hyper sexualized, hyper marketed, and a rare commodity, only 20% of the population. So they are extremely fetishized, and the alphas who run the companies don't have as much of a check and balance system holding them back. 
> 
> That's why the sexism is so much more blatant. There's far more alphas than omegas and there's still a 50s society culture of omegas kept in the home, as homemakers. Aaaand that's all I'm going to say about that, right now, b/c spoilers.
> 
> Amusing thing: MS Word tells me that "a pregnant man" is a grammatically incorrect sentence.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just changed the rating to Explicit, what do you think this chapter is about? :D

It was almost two o'clock when they got home. Douglas and Martin stood in the front hall, staring at one another.

 _"We're having a baby_ ," Douglas said.

As he hung up their coats, he watched Martin jam his thumbs in his back pockets and shift his weight from foot to foot. He still smelled gorgeous.  They weren't a couple, just because they'd had really nice sex this morning and then executed an MJN-level attack on the medical establishment and now they were going to be parents and Douglas was going to help him find a home  . . . 

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Douglas said, leading them into the living room.

"No, thanks," Martin said. "Still not interested in food."

"Ah," Douglas said. At the doctor's office, Martin had been at turns tantalized by the equal yet opposite bodily demons of sex and vomiting. "Do you still feel ill?"

Martin shrugged. "I'm good."

"In that case --" Douglas reached for him.

"Actually --" Martin chucked a thumb over his shoulder. "Do you mind if I freshen up a mo?"

Pure _horror_ sent Douglas shuffling between Martin and the hall. "You're not going to take a shower, are you? Martin, this is the last heat we'll have for _seven months._ "

Martin turned pink when he tried to cover up an attack of giddiness. He ducked his head, clearly trying to be the sensible party in the room. "I'm sticky, and not in a good way."

"I _like_ the sticky!" Douglas called as Martin banked past him and darted behind the bathroom door. Speedy little omega.

Douglas sighed and resigned himself to tidying up the bedroom.

<|>

Martin locked the door and closed his eyes. God, what a morning.

He turned the shower on hot and stripped out of his clothes, kicked them into a corner, and wrapped his hair in a towel so it wouldn't frizz. He still could feel where Doctor Horrible had dug in the transducer like she had been mining for jewels.  He'd already applied for STOC, he could go back to the same office and apply for the omega's advocacy medical program.

The water on his back felt glorious. He thought of the insanity that a handsome, sexy, decent alpha was prowling the flat and _gagging_ for him -- him! Martin had a terrible time attracting non-scary alphas, an even worse time holding on to them, due to his general pathetic life, personality, and appearance. As embarrassing as he found the whole pheromone thing, the primitive, purely sexual part of him didn't want to wash away that scent that Douglas had been appreciating in the office. But he couldn't stand having sex with nasty, clinical lube on and in him. Their lube came from a sex shop and was thin and smelled clean, not of rubber, but a bit like linen.

Speaking of lube, he wondered if they were going to knot tonight. That was fine. He liked it, sort of. It was really intense, but he was in the mood for that, so. It was just . . . well, his stomach had bothered him earlier, and sometimes he just didn't like being around other people when he'd been sick. But Douglas was his . . . the man he was about to have heat-sex with, so of course they should knot.

Martin didn't know what to call it, exactly, when you were sleeping with your baby's father but refused to fall in love with him. Modern, maybe. Free love? (Good sense.) He had assumed Douglas had other lovers, but he wasn't feeling so "modern" about that now. Martin had been seeing another guy, casually, weeks ago, but dating while pregnant was more than the requisite amount of drama for the life of one Martin Crieff.

Douglas' heavy fist pounded on the door. "Martin, have you drowned yourself yet? Shall I send a tiny SCUBA man down the drain after you?"

Martin turned off the water and was instantly chilled. He remembered, now, that he'd left the transom over the door open so it sucked out all his lovely hot air. He wrapped up in a towel and unlocked the door. Douglas barged in immediately. He laughed, and Martin remembered he still was wearing a toweling turban.

"Now, that's the look. Really getting into your house omega role," Douglas said.

"Very funny. Warm me up." Martin pushed into Douglas' arms, giving him the ends of the towel and hoping he felt nicely guilty for teasing a frozen man. He smacked the door shut behind Douglas to stop the _arctic winter_ killifying his lovely humidity.

Douglas dutifully rubbed him. "Do you feel like you again? All in one piece?"

Martin cricked his neck, dislodging the towel from his head. Douglas took it down and draped it over his shoulders. "I feel . . . a little more than me."

He circled his arms around Douglas' middle and tilted up his chin. Douglas wrapped the warm towel around him and kissed him.

Pricks of heat and hormones sparked over Martin's skin like flashpowder. He moaned, pressing his hips into Douglas', as his mouth fell open and their tongues danced together. He felt right and secure in the warmth and Douglas' arms, wanting only to be flesh-to-flesh with him, wanting to expose his whole self to this man. Wanting to submit. Heat did strange, not entirely comfortable things to Martin's mind -- made him feel things he almost feared yet felt so indulgent when he gave in to them.

Douglas gently but firmly pressed Martin back, back, until his thighs hit the marble vanity. Douglas whisked off the towels. Martin was dry, but he felt cold and bare before a man who'd seen him nude dozens of times. Douglas dropped the towels on the hamper lid, took firm grip of Martin's hips, and turned him around. Martin squeaked, disoriented, having to trust Douglas' hands to guide him. 

He was bent over the vanity, his feet nudged apart on the navy rug, and Douglas' larger, heavy form pressed over him. His hard cock through his trousers pressed into Martin's tailbone and the crack of his arse. Martin would thrust back, but he was so pinned down, so controlled, that he couldn't move.

"All right?" Douglas murmured in his ear as his hands kneaded Martin's stomach, his chest, his thumbs rubbing his nipples.

"Y-- yes. Please."

"Please, what?"

Martin could see past the ivory sink, through his folded arms, beyond his heaving chest, to Douglas' bare feet between his, the toes curling into the bath mat.

"Please don't stop."

A heavy groan, then, and a mouth at the fleshy bits of his shoulder, as those hands roamed down his stomach and triangled around his groin, cupping the base of his cock and pressing his perineum gently. Martin went on his toes, grinding into Douglas' groin. He was smacked, lightly, on the bum, and Martin giggled.

"Opportunistic boy," Douglas said. "Don't move."

He sensed rather than saw Douglas take off his clothes behind him and add them to the pile of discarded laundry, then kneel behind him. Martin's own breathing in the dark, humid basket of his arms was a wind tunnel, as his heart pounded in anticipation. He wanted Douglas to do _everything_ to him; he reveled in being wanted, touched, in the luxury of enveloping another person in a bubble of trust and intimacy. The things Douglas could do -- there was fucking and then there was someone knowing what you wanted more than you did.

Douglas' hands started at Martin's feet, caressing the sensitive tops. Lovers didn't often focus on them, but Douglas was fabulously sensual. His thumbs pressed into the hollows of each arch, and he roamed up to circle his hands around his ankles. Martin liked being held at wrist and ankle, but didn't know why.

Douglas' palms swept up his calves next and kneaded his thumbs into the tense muscles. Martin bent his knees, pressing them against the cupboard, to spread his thighs even as it tilted his body awkwardly. He could feel the cooling air on his anus, where lubrication was beginning to ooze out. Douglas had to see and smell his arousal, had to know how close Martin was to begging for it. Douglas knelt up by dint of holding onto Martin's thighs, running his palms up into the hollows of his hips, touching the ticklish parts. Martin squirmed and giggled.

"No tickling!"

Douglas kissed the back of one thigh. "Sorry, darling. You're so pretty when you smile."

Martin peered over his elbows at the self-satisfied man on his knees. Douglas' hands had returned to his arsecheeks and were idly sweeping closer and closer to the center.

"Do you still feel at all nauseous?" Douglas said.

"No," Martin said. "I feel good." He felt strange, probably because the heat wasn't real. Jittery, sort of, like he'd drank too much caffeine in a day. Letting Douglas take over and touch him was chasing away the ickiness of the morning.

"You smell like you're in heat." Douglas pressed his thumb against Martin's damp center. Martin gasped as a thousand happy firecrackers traveled directly from his genitals to his brain. "And you feel like it. I take it you want to continue?"

"Oh, yes," he moaned.

Douglas ducked his head and swept the flat of his tongue from the base of his perineum to the tip of his spine. Martin gasped as the firm organ probed all too briefly over the entirety of his soft, open cloaca.

"Gorgeous," Douglas muttered, before diving in again.

The tongue returned, swirling around the rim of his anal aperture, until Martin was squeezing his eyes shut and holding on to the vanity, desperately trying to keep still. Then the tongue narrowed and thrust inside. Lips were pressed against him and the sensation changed to sucking and wriggling at once, sending waves of pleasure up his spine and straight to his cock. Martin groaned and gripped his cock at the base to stop from coming right there.

"Move your hand," Douglas said.

"Don't stop!"

"You can come, Martin," he said. "I daresay I'll be able to get more than one out of you, don't you think?"

Martin couldn't think. His entire world was _please please put your mouth back there_ and then Douglas _did_ and yes, thank you, don't stop. He didn't notice his hand had been magnetically drawn to his cock again until he felt Douglas pull it away and press it to the sink. Douglas seized his other hand and held them both against the vanity, pinned together in his firm grip as his free hand returned to hold his arse cheeks wide open. Only then did the tongue wiggle inside him again. Martin had no choice but to lean face-down against the marble. A cool puddle of drool built up around his lips as he gasped filthy words at Douglas. Like _fuck me_ and _suck it_ and _own me, Douglas, please, I want it._

Martin gasped, voice caught in his throat, and his vision went white. His hips thrust involuntarily, he went hard and soft all over, and clear ejaculate sprayed across the marble. Martin fell boneless over the vanity. Douglas patted his rear as if in congratulations.

"You -- you just made me come from a rimjob," he said, breathless.

Douglas sat back on his heels, wiping his chin and looking satisfied. "Well, you _were_ one stiff wind from going off like a pop gun all morning. And I _am_ me."

Martin shook his head and stepped aside kindly to let Douglas rinse his mouth out. He'd always thought his own heat had the essence of unwashed pants, but Douglas apparently loved it. Trying not to think about what he'd said a few minutes ago, Martin busied himself hanging up the towels and dispatching their discarded clothes. He could feel Douglas watching him in the mirror with a wry expression, but didn't interrupt; he was pregnant, he was allowed to nest. He rescued Douglas' button-down from the hamper and carried it into the bedroom with him for safekeeping, holding it up to his face like smelling salts.

"What are you doing with my shirt?" Douglas followed him, tossing a towel at the dresser, and closed the door.

"Nothing." Martin tucked the shirt atop the book case and hoped he could smuggle it out with his things. After all, this was the last day Douglas would smell like that for seven months.

Arms came around his waist, drawing him against Douglas' warm, broad, furred chest. He tilted his head back, let Douglas cuddle him and nuzzle his throat. Martin extended one arm around Douglas' neck as the man ran the backs of his fingertips slowly, so lightly, down the soft inner skin of Martin's arm, to his armpit, his side, hip, and spread his palm flat over his belly. Martin leaned into the man holding him, his eyes drifting closed, and surrendered to the touch as Douglas' hormones filled his senses.

"I want to make love to you," Douglas purred in his ear.

Young lovers never said things like that. Up and coming young things, whom Martin was supposed to desire, didn't fly with him to Egypt where they spent half an hour trailing his spine with ice between their teeth while their fingers teased his arse until he was begging to be fucked. .

"I want you," Martin said, because it was the only truth he could risk.

<|>

Kissing Martin was one of the many bonuses God bestowed upon his favored people. When the man was really keen, he made these charming hiccuping noises and tilted his head back, exposing his whole throat for the ravaging. Martin in heat was completely different from his captain, or even his lover in his more typical mind.

It had been quite a reveal, the first time Martin whispered ' _hold me down'_ as Douglas slid inside him. Douglas pretended not to hear, thinking it was just idle sex babble; but Martin then pulled their clasped hands over his head -- he was asking for control. Martin was always looking for control. So Douglas hoisted those skinny thighs higher around his waist, took up the other hand, held them both by the wrists hard on the pillow, and kissed him to claim rights to his mouth. Martin groaned and let himself be claimed.

After, Martin wouldn't talk about it. The most Douglas got out of him, once, in the afterglow, was that he considered it a silly game that lots of couples played and needn't have any deep, psychological significance. Martin didn't stay that night, or the next time, and got on top the next few times after, and acted a right _set of_ _testes_ in the flight deck for a full _week_ , so Douglas didn't try to question _sir's_ proclivities again.

Thing was, Douglas liked taking control in bed, too. It wasn't an alpha thing, he didn't think, just like Martin liking being controlled was just a Martin-ish way to let off steam from his hurricane-in-a-hatbox life, or something like that. Douglas liked seeing his lovers helpless and trusting, and he liked taking them to a place of pleasure until he alone could bring them to their release. It took a bit of deducing to puzzle out what someone's buttons were and why. It was fun, with the right person, and all his wives had given fair game, most certainly including Helena and her stunning alpha poise. Admittedly, there had been relationships where he hadn't held up the end of the bargain involving care and honesty, but he wasn't that same dumb, selfish drunk any longer, and being cheated on had taught him a lot about priorities.

Martin needed bolstering up, so Douglas had turned the lights on low and guided the tired omega to bed. Douglas nudged him onto his stomach and started at the top, kissing down his spine as he reached for the vanilla scented massage oil, supposedly with special Red Sea skin rejuvenating properties and even kosher. (Tasted pretty good, too.)  Douglas coaxed out the stopper with his thumbs and removed the dowel. He drew the bulb down the center of Martin's spine, leaving a trail of clear, almost floral scented oil. It wasn't a cloying, sweet scent that he'd chosen in the sex shop in Jerusalem, more like pure vanilla extract. The liquid pooled in the small of Martin's back, and Douglas worked it out from the center by pressing into the vertebrae with his thumbs.

"That feels good," Martin said.

"Are you going to fall asleep on me?" Douglas said.

Martin spread his thighs just a bit. "Mmm. Never. Never fall asleep on . . . a complete and utter . . . hard-on."

Douglas chuckled. "Already? I told you I'd get more than one out of you."

Martin's hips came off the bed, and Douglas could see gorgeous things happening between his thighs. He worked the oil down his legs, his calves, his feet, taking more from the bottle to go back up again. Martin has a nice glow to him.

"You'd parboil nicely now," Douglas said. "Maybe a sweet risotto on the side."

"Missed your chance," Martin muttered. "South America. The tarmac was, what, at least forty-five degrees? Remember, I burned when we were taxiing."

"Mmmhmm. You were wearing your hat with the brim pulled low -- you turned out looking like an art student's aboriginal interpretation of a sun dial."

Douglas knew his ministrations were effective when Martin didn't bluster at that, only stretched like a cat, legs entwining with Douglas' and opening his body to a tantalizing preview as his hips undulated on the mattress. It was quite the show.

"Can I turn over?"

"Please do."

Martin got up onto his knees and elbows, showing off simply Grecian hindquarters.

"Is there a towel?" Martin said.

Douglas gestured, distracted.

Martin huffed, irritated at having to get up, and retrieved it from the carpet before the dresser, muttering about needing another shower. He spread it out on the bed and arranged his gooier parts over it, legs akimbo, feet on Douglas' bare thighs.

"Hey," Martin said.

"Hmm?"

"You're staring."

Douglas leaned, kissing him, oily hand wrapping around his very hard cock. Martin gasped and arched into him. Douglas kissed him as he thumbed along the head, covered it with his palm, and then gave one long stroke. Martin arched his back and exposed his graceful neck. Douglas kissed down that path of pale flesh as he stroked a slow pattern, teasing, drawing whispered pleas from Martin's lips. He paused in his throat's hollow and gave due time with his tongue, swirling in the clavicle, before moving down.

Douglas slowed his hand to the barest movements as he moved to Martin's nipples, feeling experimental. He flicked one with his tongue and Martin's hips twitched. Douglas grinned, wrapped his thigh over Martin's hips, and settled in. He blew on the now dampened nipple and watched it grow plump and erect.

"They're -- more sensitive now," Martin whispered.

Douglas smirked and flicked his tongue over the other one. Martin's hips twitched and needful noises came out of him. Douglas sucked, flicking his tongue, as Martin's hand tangled in his hair and his hips canted his cock into Douglas' palm. The little nub was full and he was applying so much suction, it was surely getting sore, but the harder he sucked, the more Martin groaned. Taking a guess, lifting his eyes to watch Martin's reaction, Douglas closed his front teeth on the base of the flesh in his mouth and clamped lightly. Martin gasped and thrust his hips.

Douglas pulled his head back. Martin's eyes were shot wide, lips red, color high.

"Yes? Or no?"

"What was that?" Martin said.

"Do you like your nipples pinched?" Douglas said.

"I-I don't know. No one's ever done that."

"Did you like it, Martin?"

Martin blinked furiously, a sign of anxiety. Douglas soothed his palm over Martin's pec. He squeezed a little, feeling tissue but not fat, not yet. Martin watched him, curious. He centered his fingers around the nipple and pinched lightly. Martin closed his eyes. He nodded.

Douglas closed his mouth over the other nipple, sucking it up into his mouth, and pinched them both at the same time. He grinned at the same reaction as before, Martin's hips thrusting up to meet the hand on his cock. With that hand, Douglas tugged a more earnest rhythm while his mouth and left hand pinched steady pressure on the soft, tender nipples. Under the intense sensation, Martin came, hips thrusting, nearly dry this time.

Douglas wiped his hand on the towel and pulled Martin to him, kissing him. "Well done, you," he said into his red hair.

"I think that was all you," Martin said.

Douglas kissed him and refrained from pointing out that it was Martin who consented to the pain and got off on it, which took a degree of strength Martin really ought to admit he possessed. Instead, Douglas rolled him to his side, pulled him flush against his front, and cuddled up.

"Do you want to knot?" Martin said.

Douglas buried his nose in Martin's hair. The intense hormonal smell was diminished, but strong enough to make a go worthwhile. "Do you want to?"

Martin paused, then reached into the bedside drawer. "Let's do it."

<|>

"How's this?" Douglas said.

"Keep going," Martin said impatiently.

Against his back, Douglas was thrusting so gently, so slowly, Martin just wanted him to _get on with it_ , just knot him, take him, savage him --

No, he scolded himself, you don't want that. You think you want that, but it's just a fantasy. You're being made love to by a nice man who respects you. Playing a silly game is one thing, but let him love you right now, it's not going to last, let him fill you up. . . .

The knot was growing. Martin checked his posture for last minute adjustments -- maybe that pillow -- oh. Too late. Douglas gave a mighty cry and slammed inside him. _Oh._ That hurt a little bit, but felt good, too. The knot inside him was still, and Martin could get used to it. It felt good, he knew there were a couple hundred thousand specialized cells inside his vestibule singing high opera right now. He relaxed. He let the good feelings come.

"Ready?" Douglas said.

"Yeah," Martin said. "Go ahead."

Douglas rolled his hips slowly, just stimulating himself on their tight connection -- stimulating both of them, Martin reminded himself. It was always better being knotted the second time, but this was the only one they'd have this time, so he should try to enjoy it.  (He didn't remember feeling so uncomfortable the last time he knotted, but, usually events were more . . . erratic with a real heat.) It did feel nice down there. Douglas was nudging his g-spot as his vagina unclenched to accommodate him, and being held so close like this, being needed, Martin always liked that.

After Douglas' first orgasm, they laid spooned, not talking, the knot still taking up room in Martin's drying orifice. The room had gone dark. It was probably almost eight in the evening.

Martin reached up, over Douglas' death grip on his middle, and idly played with his own nipples. They were sore in a way that was strangely erotic when he toyed with them. He resettled his bum in Douglas' groin a bit, and the knot seemed to seat itself more naturally. Douglas's hips started moving again, and the second orgasm felt more successful; Martin managed to wank himself off to a half-hearted, tired release.

He was hot all along his back. Last time they knotted, Douglas came five times with the first knot, but Martin's hormones had probably been pouring off him in buckets then. Douglas kissed the back of his neck, tonguing his spine. Martin thought about dinner.

"Are you okay?" Douglas said.

"Fine."

"No, you're not."

"Douglas --"

" _Martin_."

Martin hugged the bunched blankets to his chest, letting them take his weight. "I'm fine. It's just, the -- the drugs . . . it just . . ."

"Martin, are you enjoying this or not?"

Douglas was still knotted inside him and it wasn't his _fault_ , dammit, nothing was anyone's fault. But Martin was crying now and he didn't know why. He was fine, just fine, there was nothing wrong.

"Martin --" Douglas' fingers nudged at his arsehole. "-- bear down a bit, there's a boy."

The pressure slipped out of him and with it, all the stupid feelings he didn't know he had inside him. He cried in earnest, face pressed into the blankets, suddenly unspeakably lonely. He was scared, shaking, he didn't know why, and he was scaring Douglas which was humiliatingly worse than just being _sad_ for no reason. Martin tried to get out of bed to take his hysterics somewhere else, but Douglas caught his arm and pulled him to his chest. Pillows and the comforter were mounted around him, the towel wrapped around his waist, and he was crushed against Douglas' broad, fleshy chest.

<|>

Shower.

Dinner.

Lamps lit, a fire built.

Tasks of civility filled the empty hollows the sobs had carved out and left him unable to think or function without Douglas to guide him.

He really needed to go home sometime tonight.

They sat on the sofa while neglected cups of tea warmed their hands and perfumed the den. Douglas stroked his shins in his lap and tried to get him to Talk.

Martin held his tea.

"You needn't tell me anything you don't feel ready to discuss," Douglas said, "but I do think you should talk to someone. Have you ever been to therapist?"

"Oh god!" Martin pulled his feet up. "It was just a hormonal crying jag after a really horrid day. I'm not crazy."

Douglas looked like one of Martin's more seasoned flight instructors when he gave that look. "There are many qualified professionals who spend their careers talking with ordinary people who need help sorting out ordinary problems. As you well know."

Martin leaned his chin on his knees, looking into his tea. "I know."

"Can you tell me why you were upset? Was it something I did?"

Martin shrugged. "You didn't do anything wrong. You asked and I said yes."

He knew Douglas was relieved by that answer, so it was the right one to give.

Douglas petted his foot. "You know I worry about you, Martin."

Martin looked up. Oh, god. He'd been thinking so much about himself -- Douglas must be terrified. He set his tea on the coffee table and lurched gracelessly into Douglas' lap, wrapping his arms around his neck. He kissed him soundly.

"I'm fine, Douglas. It's okay. We just won't do anything like that again. I'm not upset at you."

Fear spiked through Martin's heart as he watched conflict battle in Douglas' eyes. But he only replied, "All right, sweetheart. If that's what you want."

Martin snuggled in, kissing Douglas for all he deserved. He really was a good man, the best he ever dated. He was lucky to be having a baby with him, so of course he couldn't afford to screw it up.

Pregnant omegas cry all the time, it was just the drugs. He liked sex and loved sex with Douglas.

It was nothing to do with that thing with his dad.


	7. The Club part a

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're going ... to a summer camp for grownups?"
> 
>  _No warnings necessary for this chap_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fwiw: I based The Club on this [horrifying little number](http://www.roehamptonclub.co.uk/activities-arts/social-scene/) (plus six seasons of Gilmore Girls). *shudder* Makes me want to send battalions of Malcolm Tuckers to that hideous garden party on the splash page.

Martin was in a cleaning mood all day Tuesday, the last day of MJN's little break. He had a moving job in the morning, which only lasted until noon, and then he climbed the stairs to his attic flat. There, standing on the carpet and surveying all that was his, he simply _hated everything_.

Over lunch, he drew up a to-do list in Excel of Baby and Moving Things. He color coded and wrote a macro for checking things off. By the time he finished his bowl of macaroni and cheese, and was crunching through his carrot sticks (secretly pleased that his lunch was all one color), the spreadsheet was three pages deep and had an eight-color scheme.

He opened his web browser and clicked his bookmark for the Omega Assistance Program, and filled out the form for a new obstetrician. Despite having all his documentation neatly organized and at the ready, it took the better part of an hour to scan and send all the papers and details they required. Martin nibbled his lip as he watched his bank account .pdf load, wondering if he made too little or too much; did his summary of the encounter with the NHS obstetrician sound too pathetic, or too detailed? It was only the truth. At least he could send it off without an alpha to vouch for him.

After all that effort, the confirmation page informed him that "an agent will contact you as soon as possible." That didn't sound good. His email box pinged and his stomach churned: the email warned of underfunding, too many omegas, not enough doctors. He may not get seen for months. It recommended seeking an OB through the NHS just in case.

Martin sighed. He wasn't ready to make another appointment with Dr. Pokey-wand, even though she had ordered another scan in a month. He'd see what Douglas thought tomorrow.

Computer work dispatched, Martin was left to organize his life in completely analogue ways.

How had he accumulated so much _stuff_? He didn't consider himself a possessions oriented sort of person, but a stack of magazines under his desk dated a year back and he didn't subscribe to a single title. A city of miniature hotel toiletries had popped up on the sideboard under the eaves -- a citadel to thrift. Admittedly, when he started flying, he'd picked them up as reminders of all the far-flung places he'd flown to, but he didn't need to collect junk. Maybe he'd start a scrapbook of his travels instead. He imagined opening the book for his school-aged daughter, holding her on his lap and saying, "These are the adventures Mummy and Daddy had when you were a baby."

It was the first time he'd thought of her as a physical being who existed outside of his body.

Then there were the novels he'd never finished -- he had a library card, why did he never visit? -- and CDs from uni that he'd outgrown. Maybe the students would like them? Martin clopped down to the ground floor common room and abandoned his dusty media on an empty shelf. One his way up, he snatched a handful of abandoned shopping bags from the airing cupboard. Some of the kids were talking in the kitchen, but they paid him no mind. He hadn't announced his pregnancy to the house and didn't know how to tell them; they were friendly, but not friends.

Upstairs in his eyrie, Martin set to work.

He'd stayed too long in this poky little flat, mainly for the rent control, quiet summers, and on-location laundry. It was too noisy at odd hours; the kitchen floor was often dirty and he didn't feel he ought to be the one always cleaning it, especially since he was rarely home. He'd learned to block out rap music, other people's sex noises, and burnt popcorn, but he was too old to be one of eight people crammed into a semi-neglected, hundred year old house.

The next place would be _his_. He'd need two rooms and the neighborhood would have to be halfway decent. Maybe a little garden in back? He could get a cat, he'd always wanted a pet to snuggle, something respectably independent. An apartment or flat like that would be in a suburban area, of course -- off the bus and train routes.

He'd have to drive more often. Can you put a car seat in his van? But the van took diesel, it was too expensive to be driving everywhere, that's why he walked or took the bus to get where he needed. He had a cart for groceries.

They could surely find something affordable near a high street, he oughtn't worry about getting around. He'd seen mums load up their kid-carts like Bedouins. Douglas would help.

Martin cleared the area under his desk of old mail and swept as he meditated on his future home.

He was asking Douglas for an awful lot. Martin knew it was perfectly reasonable to ask Douglas to pay for his own child, but was it pragmatic? He had no idea of Douglas' finances. From Martin's viewpoint, everyone was richer and had it easier than he did. He never thought about how Douglas afforded his own home, child maintenance, and possibly alimony for his second wife, if she was still unbonded. Martin didn't feel grownup enough to bridge the money topic with Douglas, but he had a right to know _some_ things, didn't he? It was his security, after all.

 _I'm really doing this_ , he thought. I'm old and in five years this kid will be in school like a whole real person, just like me when I was five years old. He remembered being five fondly. Old enough to play pretend and climb trees and enjoy school, before gender and bullying really set in. He'd had a pair of corduroy trousers he liked and brown sandals with bears inside the soles.

Martin slumped onto the bed and pitched his head into his hands. He felt like he was flying without the comfort of hundreds of pounds of steel surrounding him. Years seemed to fly past in an instant and he was old, older, _dead_. And this little girl would be young forever.

Martin flopped over and dug his phone out of his pocket. He sent the text. Too quickly, the reply binged back.

_Not busy! Be right there!_

<|>

 

"So this is your place." Arthur had to dip his head as he entered the room. "It's neat. I like the Airfix models."

Martin winced. "No, those are old. I was going to get rid of them today."

"Oh, you shouldn't," Arthur said. "You could put them in the baby's room."

Martin directed him to the desk chair and sat on the bed. "I'm not sure a little girl would want aeroplanes over her crib."

"What if it's a boy?"

Martin shrugged. "It's not a boy. But either way, she or he will be the product of two pilots. She'll come to flying on her own, if she wants it."

Arthur sat backward on the chair, cross-legged, and rested his chin on his fist, propped on the chair back. His knees jutted out like wings. "So how're things?"

Martin hooked his heels on the bedframe and leaned on his knees. "Fine. Good. I spent today cleaning."

"Ohh."

Arthur took in the room, then looked back at Martin quickly. He blushed. Clothes were pulled out of the dresser in 'stay' and 'go' piles; full bin bags were lined up under the eaves, and empty bags had drifted like fallen leaves as he'd made his way around the room, starting and stopping projects.

"Well, it was sort of a clearing out day," Martin explained. "Don't you ever get sick just everything?"

"Not really," Arthur said. "I like all my things. I collected them from all over, as far back as school."

Martin felt very far away from Arthur.

"I guess, since I'm moving, I'd rather not take unnecessary things," Martin said politely. "S-so, how are you?"

He didn't like feeling embarrassed as he listened to Arthur talk, but his friend's chatter -- which used to put him at ease with its simplicity and innocence -- was making him nervous. It wasn't that he was jealous, certainly not, because living under Carolyn's thumb had certainly taken a toll. Martin and Douglas had long ago quietly decided that there was nothing wrong with Arthur, in the _compos mentis_ sense; he was simply overly literal and suffering from severe failure to launch. Maybe it was something about freedom from fate that made Martin wish the boy would wake up and move out of Carolyn's house.

"Arthur," Martin interrupted his chatter about -- something.

"Sorry, Skip. Guess I was going on a bit." Arthur smiled, waiting for Martin to take up the conversation. It was the same expression he got when he knew his presence was no longer needed on the flight deck.

"Do you want to get out of here?"

Arthur's face lit up. "Sure! Gosh, we never go anywhere together, do we? It's always you and Douglas or you by yourself or the four of us. I sort of missed you, actually, but we had a really nice time that day in Albacete, didn't we? It can be like that."

"Oh, God, I hope not."

Arthur looked stricken.

"No! I mean, I hope we don't get jammed under a bridge whilst trying to locate a Spanish engineer in the middle of summer, all in a mad race to save two thousand pounds."

Arthur grinned. "Yeahh, I guess those parts weren't as fun. But, I mean, would you like to ride ponies or go for a swim in a lake?"

Martin tried to put those images together and failed. "Be-cause . . . we're going to a summer camp for grownups? I don't know, Arthur, aren't they usually haunted by undead ax murderers?"

"That would be brilliant! But I meant the sport club! I'm allowed to bring a guest. They have horses and swimming and really yummy lunch and slidey-pucks like cruise ships do. I'm brilliant at that, I could teach you."

It sounded terrifying. "I don't think I have the right thing to wear?"

"Sure you do!" Before Martin could stop him, Arthur was flipping through his piles of shirts and trousers. "It's summer, you don't need to dress up. Lots of guys wear these --" He held up an ancient pair of khaki shorts from Martin's long ago barista job. "Oh, perfect, polo. You'll fit right in. Actually, can I borrow one?"

"Arthur, those are ancient. They're threadbare."

"So? The horses won't care."

"Actually, I don't think I can horseback ride when I'm pregnant and I'm not sure about lake water. . . ."

Arthur had his own shirt off and Martin's oversized polo over his head. "Oh," he said through the polyester blend. "Well, we could golf. That's just walking on grass, you can do that, can't you?"

It was simply impossible to politely explain that he was terrified of rich people, being social, and being the token unbound pregnant omega in a nest of the kind of people who spent weekday afternoons at private 'clubs'.

So he said, "I can golf. Theoretically."

"Brilliant!"

 

<|>

 

Arthur led Martin through the marble entrance with a felicitous hand at the small of his back. The "clubhouse" was big enough to park GERTI in if you knocked down a few walls. Arthur didn't bat an eye at the valet parking or the . . . gym-waiters? who relieved them of their gym bags.

"I assume we'll see those again," Martin whispered.

Arthur touched him between his shoulder blades. "They just took our gear to the locker rooms. It's their job. Do you want to get a snack or a coffee or anything before we play?"

The _foolish_ decline was almost out of Martin's mouth, before he noticed the buffet Arthur was tactfully steering him towards. Its centerpiece was a _gleaming_ bowl of strawberries, each half as large as his fist. Beside them, darkest chocolate drizzled from a fountain. There was an icy pitcher labeled "Ginger Shandy", tiny tarts, exotic fruit from countries he thought about in his sleep, a regiment of teapots arrayed beside colorful signs depicting their varied types -- and that was only the dessert table.

"It's lunchtime," Arthur announced cheerfully. "I thought you might want to eat before we play."

Martin swallowed. "Yes. Yes please. Let's do the eating thing now."

He tired to be delicate. He passed over the grouper and committed to the beef shank instead. By the end of his circuit, Martin found himself saying to the servers, "I'm pregnant, do you mind one tiny extra little scoop, please?" At that, he got a wink accompanied by an, "Anything you want, love," which Martin thought a bit unprofessional.

For once, his plate was piled higher than Arthur's.

"Gosh, Skip," Arthur said as they sat. "I guess you're feeling better."

Martin blushed. "Yes, thank you. Much."                                                       

"I love a buffet." Arthur hit the _'boo_ -fay' hard, like the mystical blonde in _Friends_. "You get to try all sorts of things you've never had before, and if you have, you can try them in new ways." He twirled his fork in his spaghetti Bolognese and stabbed a lump of chicken curry on the end, then shoved it in his mouth like a python.

Martin looked away, not wanting to torment his sensitive stomach. Everything on his well covered plate was bland and from the same continent. "You do enjoy new experiences."

"Sure." Arthur carefully sweetened his tea with spoonfuls of lemonade. "That's how you have interesting things to talk about. S'why I love flying around in GERTI so much. There's always something surprising in a new place or new customers or when she does something really terrifying and I think we're going to be stranded forever in some country that doesn't have Kit Kats."

"Is that why you keep a stash on board?"

Arthur coughed. "You know about the stash?"

"Don't worry, I won't tell Douglas or your mum."

Arthur grinned and began rolling his onigiri in a thin slice of sirloin like an enchilada, then doused it in Worcestershire. "Thanks. And, if you ever need one because of baby burblies, my candy ess sou candy."

"Thanks, Arthur." Martin didn't tell him he'd already eaten the orange ones. Pregnant.

They ate quietly, accustomed to taking meals without extra chatter between them. The room began to fill; queues formed at the most protein-rich tables. Rich people needed their strength, Martin mused. He watched a few specifically head for the most expensive items -- caviar, steak, imported things -- and leave the three bean salads. These were the kind of clients who promised him big payment, he realized, but at the end, quibbled over the bill, or added work at the last minute for the same fee.

He took a long drink of his cranberry juice, wishing he was allowed alcohol.

"Was everything yummy?" Arthur asked.

Martin looked down. He hadn't noticed he'd cleared his plate. "It was lovely, thank you."

Arthur shrugged. "It's my dad's membership, only he never comes to Fitton anymore to use it. D'you want seconds, or dessert?"

Martin felt stuffed, but was too embarrassed to sit at the table alone, so he followed Arthur across the now crowded room to the dessert table. There were alphas he passed who could probably smell he was pregnant. Did they know Arthur and think he was the father? How well known was Gordon? Martin felt funny taking advantage of someone's estranged parent to gain entry and lunch, but he was already here and Arthur's membership arrangement wasn't his business.

As he picked up the hand-sized porcelain plate, Martin considered that Arthur couldn't be as, well, stupid as he behaved sometimes if he habitually maneuvered in a structured, pressurized society. He'd never thought about it, but Arthur had been raised rich; these people, and MJN's clients, were ordinary to him. But then, everyone was ordinary to Arthur -- he had a canny and Socratic way of getting to the human condition in just about anyone he met.

"Hello, Auntie Ruth," Arthur chirped. Martin looked down the buffet. "Is Kieran here too?"

Martin winced. What was Carolyn's sister doing here? Horrid woman. Arthur appeared to be taking this meeting in stride; Ruth looked as sour as Martin remembered when they abandoned her in Helsinki due to her own horribleness. Surely Arthur was going to say something awful if Martin didn't provide adequate supervision.

"He's out in the stables with his friends," Ruth said. "Sweet, well-bred omegas, I believe, you know how good he is with them."

"I thought he didn't like horses," Arthur said.

Martin swallowed his snicker. At least the little twerp was occupied. He skulked around the duo to hover near Arthur's side, hoping his friend saw him as backup and Ruth didn't see him at all.

"Is this your omega then?" Ruth said.

Martin sighed inwardly. He tried to communicate with his eyes that if Arthur was telling his aunt they were boyfriends, he'd play along. What did it matter?

Arthur looked confused. "This is Martin Crieff, mum's _pilot_. Don't you remember Mum's birthday?"

Giving in to the flow of the conversation, Martin stuck out his hand. "Hello, I'm _Captain_ Martin Crie--"

"So not yours, then?" Ruth said to Arthur.

Arthur shook his head. "No, he's Douglas'."

"Who?"

Martin made a tiny, frantic gesture behind Ruth's head, but Arthur plodded on.

"Our other pilot, he's called Douglas. Martin is his omega. Well, he doesn't belong to him or else he'd be a puppy. I suppose they belong to each other, since they're having a baby together."

Martin's arms flopped to his sides. Well, that would be getting back to Carolyn by sundown.

"I see," Ruth said. "I didn't realize MJN was such a _family_ company."

Martin edged down the table, picking up nibbles and putting them on his plate without caring what they were. The coffee smelled lush and lovely and didn't at all resemble getting chewed out by one's horrid aunt.

"I'm sorry you missed yet another chance, dear," Ruth was saying, "but there's plenty of fish in the sea."

"And turtles, too," Arthur said. Martin smiled as he selected the Kona.

"You mustn't get downhearted about being a beta," Ruth said. "Just because you're, well, that type doesn't mean you can't settle down and have a nice, quiet little home without all that fuss the alphas and omegas go through. Millions of people do it and they don't say they're missing anything at all."

Arthur crumbled the cookie on his plate with his thumb. "I -- I know, I'm not. But, it's just, I'm not really looking . . ." he trailed off with a whimper, looking at Martin.

"How can you not be looking?" Ruth admonished the idea. "Don't tell me you've given up. You're much too young, you've plenty of years to be alone like your mother, bless her brave soul."

Martin took two long strides back into to the conversation and slung an arm around Arthur's shoulders, sloshing his coffee on the carpet and not caring. "Actually, Ruth, Arthur is our child's godfather and our very most important friend. Family, really. So if you don't mind, we were just about to do some male bonding out on the green. Beg pardon."

He steered Arthur out of the atrium by the scruff of his neck -- and then waited in the hall with a tolerant smile as Arthur ran back, grabbed a handful of cookies, and three strawberries for Martin, said goodbye to his aunt, and fled. As they rounded the staircase, Arthur grabbed him around the middle. Martin yelped.

"That was brilliant!" Arthur crowed in Martin's ear. "I've never been any baby's anything."

Oh. Whoops. He did say that, didn't he? Martin patted Arthur's back.

"I - I don't know, Arthur. I sort of just said that to put your aunt off. It's a big responsibility, wouldn't you rather just be her uncle? I hardly ever see my brother, so you'll be her favorite."

A drove of tennis players crossed the foyer behind them, calling to one another, bringing a gust of warm, summer air into the climate controlled hall.

Arthur pulled away. "Oh," he said. "I see. No, that's okay. It's still brilliant to be an uncle. I've never been that, either."

Martin squeezed his arm. "It really is."

They walked through an arched door into the sunlight. The ground was soft and fresh hay had been put down over puddles. The club grounds were green, edged with well sculpted flower beds, and sloped in gentle hills for miles in each direction. Arthur led him along a lane where a sign pointed them to 'equipment rental.' 

"Really-really her favorite?" Arthur said.

"We shall need all the help we can get," Martin said as they rounded a duck pond. Cupid and a few minor gods peed into the center of it.

"I love helping."

"I know. You're good at it." Usually.

"Do y'reckon she'd like a silly hat on her birthdays?"

A swan barked at them. Martin shrieked. Arthur laughed.

 

<|>

 

After they rented equipment, they walked past tennis courts popping with activity in the bright, June sunshine, along a long arcade to the golf course. It was half sized to regulation, to Martin's relief; Arthur called it 'chip and putt.'

"It's sort of like crazy golf without the fun bits."

It was nothing like crazy golf. Martin's omega golf club bag was smaller and lighter than Arthur's enormous regulation bag, but it chafed Martin's shoulder and he was sweating as they crested the hill between the first hole and second starting-place-thingy.

"It's a tee-off." Coach Arthur had been in residence since they left the equipment shed.

"I know," Martin mumbled as he fished out another plastic pick with a ball cup on top.

"This time," Arthur instructed with a hint of RP pronunciation, "try to hit the ball on the first swing. Also, hold on to your club the whole way through. It's not cricket, you don't have to drop it after --"

"I _know_." Martin pulled the big club out. His bag fell over. Arthur moved to set it up, and he waved him off. "Let it lie there and think about what it's done."

 "Sure, Skip. Do you want help?"

At the first tee, Arthur stood behind him and guided his arms, hand on his elbow, a decent gap between his chest and Martin's back. A gaggle of women walked by and wolf whistled. Arthur turned colors and released him, apologizing profusely while Martin pretended he hadn't heard the shrill, suggestive sound. Arthur's arms had been kindly comforting as Martin held the club awkwardly, but he smelled of fish and curry.

"It isn't difficult, Arthur. Hit the ball with the heavy wooden club at the end of the long stick."

Arthur leaned on his golf club and watched him. "Right, just, stand with your toes perpen-- oh. I guess that works too."

Martin shaded his eyes and watched his bright, purple ball fly. It arced gracefully, hyperbolic to the earth, and eclipsed the sun. Then it was falling, past the sand trap -- yay! And -- oh. Into the bushes again. The _edge_ of the bushes, so he'd shown some improvement.

"Too bad, Skip, that's a penalty stroke," Arthur said.

"Did you see how it banked off the fence post? I couldn't do that again if I tried." Martin felt rather cheerful, despite Arthur's grimace.

Arthur teed his light orange ball. "Yeah, that was neat. Good job you probably won't have to go into the sumac again."

"What?" Martin inspected his bare lower legs as Arthur's shot sailed over the pitch. Martin looked up, astonished.

"Brilliant! I think it's near the green!"

"The whole thing's green," Martin mumbled. "How can you be incapable of microwaving a three minute meal, but you're a savant at hitting balls accurately into a cup a hundred meters away?"

Arthur patted him on the back with his sticky, gloved hand. "Aw, Skip, don't feel bad. I've had lots of practice. Golf isn't a real skill, not like flying planes."

"Thanks, Arthur, but I think there's a few very wealthy athletes who'd beat your head in with their thousand dollar clubs for saying that."

"It's true," Arthur said thoughtfully. "Money doesn't buy happiness. Just angriness."

A clunk of gear heralded another group coming up behind them. Martin hefted his white bag as Arthur slung his sleek, black Matilda onto his shoulder like an Olympian. There were four of them, an elderly man with his presumed grown children -- no, clearly brothers plus a girlfriend, Martin thought as she took the darker one's hand. Four caddies trailed them like oiled Roman litter bearers. He wondered if he could charge people extra for carrying their removals if he could work his thighs up like redwoods.

"Shappey!" The older alpha grabbed Arthur in a half-balanced hug. "Are you making base camp at this hole? We've been watching you since tee-off."

His name was Calder, he knew Arthur since teenagehood, and his son Alec was marrying the blonde woman. Martin greeted the old man, or rather was greeted and politely inspected like a stock option passed across Calder's desk. James, the fairer brother, hesitated behind his father and brother, but smiled at everything Arthur said.

"Is Arthur giving you a good tour of the club, Crieff?" Calder asked.

"Oh, yes. It's very nice. Pretty. We had -- " Martin suddenly felt it gauche to talk about lunch, as if he'd stolen it. "We're having a good time. At golf. The golfing is . . . this is a great green. Er, pitch. Golf pitch."

"Golf course," Arthur said quietly.

"Glad to hear it," Calder said. "If you're thinking of joining, couples' nominations are at the end of the month. I'd be glad to second you. Any friend of Arthur's, and all that."

Martin felt his face heat to his hairline. The old man was winking at Arthur in a congratulatory sort of way; Arthur blushed. The pale brother was edging away from the conversation.

"Dad, do you have to interrogate everyone who walks on your territory? You're like the hounds," the blonde woman said. She leaned into Alec playfully.

"Thank you, sir," Martin said, "but Arthur and I are just mates. He invited me today so I could learn how to lose a tiny ball in the woods."

Calder horked up a laugh, slapping Arthur on the shoulder. "Well, he's just not showing you properly. I've seen this boy's swing. Now, on this hole . . ."

The three alphas stepped up to the tee, conferring the slope, weather, and grass condition as if they were operating a nuclear reactor. Martin was superfluous to the 'real' conversation.

Relieved, he joined James on a nearby bench. They traded introductions, and James apologized for his father's pushiness.

"My dad takes golf seriously," James said. "He says it's an important networking . . . thing. How to play. Skillfully."

"You mean tactfully?"

James twirled his club like a baton. "Got it in one."

"I see."

"So, do you work with him at the airfield?" James said.

"I'm the captain."

"Aha, and an omega. Congratulations."

Martin smiled. "Thanks, I worked very hard for it. How do you know Arthur?"

James suddenly looked a bit high color. "Oh, we're old friends from school. He was in class with Alec. I think my dad is playing through, do you mind?"

Martin blinked at him. Looked at the alphas crowding the teeing-off-place. Looked back, unenlightened.

"It means my party is jumping the queue," James explained.

"Oh! No, I don't mind. I feel badly that we're slowing you down."

James shrugged, flashing a smile. "You're still learning. Anything to get this day over faster, I guess. Ugh -- I mean, that sounded bad. I love my brother, and Cece my soon-to-be sister-in-law, and even my dad. Just, not all at once."

"Sorry," Martin said. "I'm the only omega in my family, too."

James' chuckle was dry, bitter. "I'm an alpha. Alec is the omega. Dad's over the moon that he's made an 'acceptable' marriage. He can't wait for grandkids."

Martin ghosted a silent 'ohhh.'

James planted the club in the grass. "Why, do I seem like I'm an omega?"

"No! Sorry. I didn't -- I shouldn't have assumed."

James patted Martin's knee. Martin crossed his legs. "It's okay. People do. I take it as a compliment, really. I never wanted to be _that guy_." He pointed the club at his father. The man was laughing loudly at Arthur's swing, pushing him to take another turn. Martin tried to catch Arthur's eye, to tell him it was okay if he wanted to walk away, but Arthur was trapped in the older alpha's thrall.

"I see," Martin said.

"Do you?" James said.

Martin's chest felt tight. His fingers fumbled as they unclipped the water bottle from the side of his golf bag. He took a long sip before he answered.

"My dad was like that." He wiped off his mouth. The water was the clearest, sweetest thing he ever tasted. He looked over the wide, open expanse of golf green and thought of the ocean thousands of feet beneath GERTI and in miles all around her. "He was pretty controlling."

"Alpha dads can be like that," James said.

Martin screwed the lid on tight and put it back in its pocket. "I mean, it's good you still have a relationship with yours. Good of you. Family is . . . important. Good -- good for you."

Cece whooped, overjoyed by her successful swing, apparently. Alec squeezed her and she kissed him.

"Think I'm up," James said. "You take care, okay?"

"You too."

As James stepped up the plate -- tee -- whatever -- he passed Arthur as he approached the bench. Martin blinked. He'd been thinking of far away places and GERTI, but his mind was wrenched back to the present when then the air seemed to sizzle between his friend and the alpha. Their eyes met, and only a blind man could miss -- something?

 _Oh_ , Martin thought. _Other people and their dramas._.

Arthur sat beside him as if nothing had happened.

"So, what do we do now?" Martin said. "Wait for them before we can continue?"

Arthur shrugged. "Just let them get ahead a bit, then we can find your ball." He turned his gaze up into the clear sky. The sun had passed its apogee, and shadows crossed their legs.

"James seems nice," Martin ventured.

Arthur shrugged. "He's all right. Are you having fun?"

Martin turned his glance from the group and their entourage. "Of course. Beautiful day. I'm learning a sport that doesn't involve running or turning upside down. I haven't passed out once and that's a bonus check mark on the Crieff physical education chart." Martin mimed said mark.

Arthur grinned. "Golf is brilliant, isn't it? Even if not everyone you meet is as brilliant as, say, the fire crew or you guys. There's still really nice people."

Martin squeezed his arm. "I understand."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chap was *hell to write* at first. Eventually I figured out it was getting way too fucking big for its britches, so I scaled it back, reduced my expectations (always the key to contentment), and chopped it in half. Hence, part a and part b.


	8. The Club part B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continues from part A/chap 7. Now with Carolyn, phone calls, secrets and lies.

The béchamel sauce was just smooth enough for cheese when the phone rang. Douglas lowered the burner.

"Carolyn." He clamped the phone between shoulder and ear and turned down the wireless. "If you think I'm flying anytime before nine a.m. tomorrow morning, it's going to cost you."

"As if I could coax you into the airfield before the crack of noon." The receiver suppurated his employer's plummy tones. "No, I was relaxed to a state hardly seen by woman or Silly Puddy when I received a rather distressing phone call."

"Oh, is Herc visiting, or are you finally saving us all your charming personality by taking a daily shot of phenol?" Douglas decanted half a cup of Gouda into the sauce and stirred.

"Thus," she continued, "in the interest of enjoying my last fourteen hours _sans_ disreputable employees, I'd like to have this hideous rumor expunged from my brain as soon as possible."

Douglas bit his lip. There were any of a hundred unpleasant things Carolyn could uncover on him, professionally, but only one that would upset her enough to call him at home. "And what, pray tell, has the Fitton grapevine deposited upon yon mobile?"

"Firstly, and this is hardly a surprise, but Arthur has rather let it slip that you and Martin are a you-and-Martin." She sounded a bit triumphant.

Douglas slammed the oven door on his salmon steak. "I don't see how that's any of your business." What he meant was, give me five minutes to think of a strategy to getting maternity pay out of you, because any fool can see where this was going, and Douglas Richardson is no fool.

"Right. So it follows, then -- although it shouldn't have to, since the invention of oral contraceptive and the Julian calendar -- that you idiots have managed to whip yourselves up a miniature pilot-in-waiting."

Douglas switched the phone to the other hand. "You can't fire him, Carolyn. He has a contract, it would be illegal, and I will hire a lawyer. How do you think it will look in court that you hired an omega and refused to pay him? Sounds quite a bit like the old omega slavery trope, doesn’t it?"

"Calm yourself, Douglas!" She sounded more amused than angry, which was a favorable sign. "You may be his alpha but I'm the senior pup here. If anyone should be in a strop, it should be me. Do you have any idea what pregnancy will cost me? I mean, congratulations and all that rot, but were you going to tell me before he started waddling about the Portakabin?"

Douglas smiled. He couldn't _wait_ to see Martin _fat_. "Of course we were going to tell you at an appropriate time. We've only known for about a week ourselves. As he is over thirty, isn't it customary to keep it between the parents until the all-clear has passed?" That should play nicely on a mother's heart.

"Bull hockey," she pronounced. "You two get down here at eight a.m. tomorrow, we have paperwork to fill out."

"Eight a.m.! The flight isn't until eleven!" Obligating Douglas to be there no earlier than eleven-thirty.

"Then I suppose someone ought to go to bed early."

The line went dead. Douglas fired off a petulant text, knowing it would only amuse her. The woman was a demon.

It was only later -- when he'd finished his meal and was planted in front of the game with a modest bowl of frozen yogurt -- that he realized she hadn't actually said she'd pay for maternity leave at all.

 

<|>

 

After Martin and Arthur finally, finally coaxed their balls into the last cup and tallied their scores (Arthur insisted that three digits was average for a beginner), they returned to the locker rooms for "a soak."

"Try the sauna," Arthur said. "Auntie Ruth says it gets out your toxins."

"You know all that is New Age rubbish," Martin said.

"Yeah, but it _feels_ like your toxins are coming out, and who wants to feel toxic? You should try it!"

So Martin tried out the three showerheaded stall, feeling like some sort of sacrificial virgin about to be offered to the god of the sea, and used their peach-smelling soaps and shampoos and the complimentary scrubby glove thingy. He snuck a few samples into his gym bag (really, his flight bag), they smelled so relaxing.

Feeling rubbery and content, Martin decided to try out the sauna after all. He'd only seen them on television, usually mob movies, and figured this was probably his only opportunity to use one. He read the pregnancy warning on door carefully, and set his a twenty minute timer on his watch. Taking a deep breath, he went in. Then ducked out again, filled his water bottle with icy water from the pitchers floating with cucumbers on the vanities, reset his watch, and went back inside.

It was _hot_. He'd been to Saharan Africa, equatorial South America, and the American Deep South in summertime, but this was . . . claustrophobic. He took a long drink and stood still for a moment, remembering how to breathe. Someone ladled water over the glowing rocks -- the only point of clear light in the dim, steamy room -- and he coughed. It was steam, of course, but his psychosomatic response thought he was in the smoke-clogged fuselage in Ipswich. God, people enjoyed this? He took another long draught of water and pressed the cold, metal bottle to his forehead, his throat.

His vision cleared. He spied open spots on the wood benches far from the two glowing rock steamers that he was calling 'the hell hounds' in his head. He picked his way carefully, in the club-issued plastic sandals, over the smooth, bamboo risers. The benches were hot to the touch. He loosened his towel around his hips, just sort of draped it there. If he wasn't so modest, he'd have gotten rid of it; this kind of heat was why entire cultures adopted nudism without a care.

He presently noticed he was sitting next to a omega in the altogether, soft cock tucked between his legs. Martin looked away. On his other side and one level lower, a nude woman had draped a towel draped over her hips. She leaned back and rested her elbows near Martin's feet. Oh. Breasts. He'd be growing a set of those, soon. He looked through mostly closed eyes, curious at the twin swells, the areolas darker than his, how much more prominent her nipples were. They looked . . . troublesome. Martin absently stroked his stomach, imagining how the ligaments in his hips would loosen in the last weeks and he'd adopt a rolling gait. The man beside him had obviously been pregnant before; his breasts hadn't shrunk back, instead became dollops of skin with little fat or muscle beneath them.

Martin closed his eyes and drank from his rapidly warming water bottle. 

"When are you due?"

Martin opened his eyes. The man beside him had kind green eyes and apple cheeks to go with his slightly chubby body. He held out his hand.

"I'm Blaise. I saw you giving my rack the fifty-yard stare."

Martin tried to pull away and hide somewhere, but Blaise held his hand and grinned.

"No, it's okay. First time mums are adorable. C'mon now, tell me your name and we'll be mates."

"Martin," he breathed.

"Hullo, Martin. Congratulations. I've had two."

Martin pulled the towel higher. Words fell from his mouth on their own volition. "Th-thank you. I'm sorry, I wasn't staring, I just don't know many other -- or, any other pregnant -- or, any omegas, really. Sorry. I don't really -- I don't work with --"

"Whoa, slow down, tiger. You don't have omega friends, I get it. Does your alpha keep you locked up at home or something?"

Martin shook his head. "No, not at all. I'm a pilot. There just aren't many other omega pilots -- or, any, that I know of. I suppose there are a _few_ , but if there are, they're hiding. But I guess everyone will know about me soon."

Blaise gave him a sympathetic look. "And that terrifies you."

Martin relaxed the choking grip on his towel. "You have no idea."

 

<|>

 

In the alpha locker room, Arthur lingered in his shower stall.

The club had very nice showers, but you couldn't pace in a four by four foot space. Otherwise, Arthur liked that each stall had a door to the changing vestibule that locked from the inside, a big bench, and lots of hooks for lots of clothes. More than one person would ever wear. In the shower part, the curtain went over his head and sealed very well to the floor and never showed gaps at the sides. The shower heads could be turned any which way, even away from the center, and the tile was always so clean you didn't mind touching the walls or even the floor with any part of your body.

A short, sharp pattern sounded at his door: shave anna haircut, two bits. Arthur reached around the curtain and unlocked the door. James opened the door and squeezed in, in his shower shoes and towel. He locked the door behind him.

"Were you waiting for me?" he said.

"Only a little while," Arthur said. "It's okay. C'mere, I missed you."

James hung his towel on the empty hook and stepped into his arms. Arthur pulled the curtain around them and turned on the taps. Hot, sweet water speckled their sun-kissed bodies as they pressed together, from lips to stomachs to hips to thighs. They were about the same height, but James was the willowy type while Arthur stood solid and a bit soft in places.

They kissed, soft, urgent kisses, like stolen promises.

"I'm sorry, it's the wedding," James said. "I practically have to check in with one of them every minute of the day. It's like I'm not even the alpha of the family anymore."

Arthur kissed him as he whispered, "It's okay. I understand. We've got now."

They kissed and their hands caressed and it was good, so normal to them, no matter what anyone would have said. Arthur slid to his knees, kissing as he went down.

"Oh, God," James hissed. "I needed you all day. My dad -- you'd think my brother was his prized cow, and Alec just eats up the attention. The only time they notice me is when I do something stupid."

Arthur sucked a line across the indentation of his hip. "I'm sorry. I wish I could be with you."

"I need you. I'm just so . . . useless as an alpha. As a person."

Arthur levied himself up gracefully with a tug to James' waist. He hugged him around the shoulders and said into his throat, "Nobody is useless. You're brilliant, and kind, and a good person. And I love you."

James wrapped his arms around Arthur's neck. He could feel the tension radiating through the man's slim frame. James deserved to be taken somewhere soft with white sheets. Somewhere they didn't have to hide.

"I love you too," he said finally. "I need you to know that -- just in case."

"Nothing bad is going to happen." Arthur kissed him again, and slid down James' body. "Just enjoy this."

"I know," James sighed.

And Arthur set to work showing him just how much life there was to enjoy.

 

<|>

 

After Martin's sauna, and another rinse because he felt _revolting_ , Blaise led him to the juice bar on the verandah to "replenish your electrolytes." He pushed the citrus, almond paste, spinach, and yogurt smoothie on Martin, who would only give in when he tried Blaise's first.

"This is really refreshing for something the color of baby yurk." Martin chose their seats on a wall in the shade of an enormous lilac bush. The long, wedge-shaped clusters hung deep purple and smelled like heaven.

"I told you," Blaise said. "Three hundred calories and about a million vitamins and essential acids, or some rot like that. My doctor put me on a special diet after my second."

"Was it a difficult pregnancy?"

Blaise shook his head. "I suffered post-partum depression. Nursing made my hormones all wonky, plus my alpha and I weren't getting on so well. We should have waited longer, but I was already thirty-two, I didn't want to be an old mum. My alpha's older than me, even."

Martin stirred his drink. "Did you have any idea you were going to get post-partum depression with the second one?"

Blaise shook his head. "No, I had a really good pregnancy. It just happens sometimes. More common with firsties, they say, but every omega's different. If you're worried, keep up with your doctor. Do you have a good one?"

Martin shook his head. "Our first visit was awful, but I applied for an Omega's Advocacy Program doctor."

"Oh, your kid will be out of nappies before you get one of those." Blaise turned on his phone. "Here, what's your email? Do you have that fist-bumper app? It's absurd, I know, but very useful."

"I only have a dumbphone, but you can email me at home or work," Martin said.

Blaise pressed upon Martin his obstetrician, insisting his office took OAP, you only had to get your card and make an appointment.

"Look, I'll give him a call tomorrow, let him know to look out for you? C-r-e-i-f-f?"

"I-E," Martin said in disbelief. "Thank you so much. Are you sure about this?"

"Well, I'm not his secretary, but it doesn't hurt to ask. Ask for a referral if he can't fit you in."

" _Thank you_. You don't know--"

"It's no problem," Blaise said. "Ah, there's your friend."

Martin looked. Arthur was lingering at the corner of the porch with -- oh. That James guy. They stood three feet apart, talking about sports, and if pure sexual energy could be converted into electricity they'd have blown up every tasteful sconce decorating the verandah.

"So," Martin said quickly to Blaise, "I suppose it worked out? The baby . . . thing?"

Blaise looked amused. "Well, I'm still married and still a mum, if that's what you mean."

Martin almost spilled his smoothie. "No, I mean, the post-partum thing?"

Blaise shrugged. "It's pretty much under control, bar some good days and bad. I wouldn't trade my boys in for anything."

Martin walked Blaise to the edge of the verandah to see him off to his car. He thanked him again, and was folded into a surprise hug. Later, when he checked his email, he'd find Blaise's number as well as the OB's.

When he returned to the verandah, Arthur was watching James return to his family. He had a smoothie in his hand, something chocolaty with a cherry jabbed on a plastic spear. James turned and waved with the hand that wasn't holding his own thick, rich-looking smoothie. He almost tripped over his own feet, but turned it into a clumsy dance. Arthur really knew how to pick them.

Martin frowned as James' brother shouted, impatient, and there was a terse exchange of words. He glanced at Arthur. His jaw was tense, the cup forgotten by his side. Martin approached slowly.

 "I guess James' dad is a bit not brilliant too?"

Arthur jumped. "Oh, Martin. Hi. Did you have fun? Um, do you want to try some of this? I thought I'd like it, but, um . . . No. James' dad . . . I mean, he's very well respected. Cece is a really nice woman."

Martin squeezed his friend's shoulder. Dusk was rising as they walked up the hill, along the lane, in the purpling darkness. The sun was a yellow ball behind the trees and the low rays lit the ridge of the road in yellow. Cars were pulling out of the drive, tires popping over the gravel side lot. Martin slapped a mosquito.

He chatted aimlessly at Arthur, who was unusually quiet, telling him about the sauna and meeting Blaise. He didn't think Arthur was really interested in omega talk, but Arthur asked the right questions at the right intervals.

"Martin?"

He glanced at Arthur, squinting in the lowing sun, as they got in the car. "Something bothering you, Arthur?"

Arthur started the ignition "No. Yes."

"Would you like to share with the class?"

"Yes. No. Only if you don't get angry."

Martin budged their knees against one another. "Speak."

"You said -- you said that you and Douglas -- that you didn't plan it?"

"Yes?" Martin said. The conversation was suddenly more 'adult situations' than he was used to ascribing to a world that included Arthur.

Arthur craned his neck to back out of the spot, but a short line of cars had formed in the aisle behind them. "No, nothing. I -- nevermind. None of my business."

Martin looked out the window, into his faint reflection. "What do you want to know, Arthur?"

Arthur's fingers tapped on the steering wheel to the radio. "How could you not know? Either you're in heat or you're not, and if you are, then you don't do it, or you use condoms or something. I know it's none of my business --"

"No, it's not." Martin couldn't look at him.

"Sorry, but, it kind of is," he said in a rush. "Because MJN is Mum's company and it's sort of my company too, like if Mum ever dies, which she won't, because she's not allowed, but if she did, then it would be just you and Douglas and me. And we really _need_ you. Not saying that you can't have a baby because of your job, because babies are brilliant, but if you maybe could've at least told Mum that you and Douglas were like that? It's a really big decision, Martin. You don't just make really big decisions that affect other people without warning them first. Because even good things are scary and that makes other people upset and it could really hurt them."

Traffic was starting to move. Once the sun had set, everyone wanted to leave.

"You'd better go now," Martin said. "Look, that guy is letting you in."

Arthur's gaze hung on Martin's. He ducked his head, nodding, and backed out of the space. Fitton flew by and they didn't speak. Arthur cleared his throat, rolled down his window, put his elbow on the door, and changed the radio station at red lights. When they were gas-and-braking up the high street to Martin's house, dodging kids running out into the slow traffic, Martin risked conversation.

"For what it's worth," Martin said, "we had condoms."

"Oh," Arthur said.

"You don't know what heat is like, Arthur. You've never experienced it. It was stupid, I know. I didn't think that -- I thought I would just lock myself in my room and keep him out. It just didn't work that way." 

Arthur turned on Martin's street. In the darkness, he said, "You must really love him lots."

Martin huffed. "Of course not. No, it's just -- it's chemicals, when you're in heat. I didn't have a choice."

Arthur slowed the car to a stop. Martin almost didn't recognize his own neighborhood. They sat in the darkness. Martin didn't undo his seatbelt.

"It's okay to love him," Arthur said. "I won't tell."

Martin gathered up his jacket and bag. "Arthur, you're incapable telling the simplest lie regarding decaf in a caf pot. Thank you for a lovely day, you're an officer and a knight-errant."

They said goodnight, and he slipped out of the car. He heard Arthur linger by the kerb until he opened the front door, then start the car and drive away.

His room looked like it had been going 900 kph at 300,000 feet and someone opened a window. God, where had his head been this morning? Thank God he didn't get rid of anything important. He opened the Excel spreadsheet. It looked like the ravings of a mad cleaning psychopath. He kicked the piles of papers and laundry off of his bed, stripped to his underwear, and got in. Sheets felt good, blankets felt whole and solid.

He picked up his pathetic, dumb phone. He opened his contacts and contemplated them like a Buddhist finger maze, scrolling over the lower half of the alphabet, musing on his day and his general mood. Noting his feet in his socks, his tired leg muscles, his arms and shoulders. The way his skin hummed and did feel 'detoxified', whatever the hell that meant. The frizz of his hair and how he needed to wash it tomorrow. The slight stirring of hunger that suggested a smoothie wasn't dinner.

He pressed 'send.' Nibbled his lip. Felt electricity jiggle his nerves and acknowledged, for the first time, that anticipation wasn't a bad thing.

The receiver clicked.

"Martin," Douglas purred down the line. "Missing me already?"

Martin curled onto his side, cradling the phone into his chin. "No. I -- um. I just wanted to tell you, I got a good tip about an obstetrician, so, um. I'm going to go ahead with that. He takes OAP cards or however it works. So I won't have to wait. It was a pretty lucky connection, actually."

"I see. And leaving aside that this news easily could have waited until tomorrow, I am genuinely glad to hear you're getting a better OB. I'm also curious to discover how you made this connection in a single day."

Martin grinned. Douglas was impressed. He oughtn't have been so glad to make someone else proud, but it felt good, knowing someone he respected thought he was clever. He told his tale, starting with seeking out Arthur to help with his anxiety, the golf game -- whitewashing over his utter inability to smack golf balls into submission -- and leading up to the sauna.

"Mm, a roomful of nude omegas ripening in the warmth. They ought to bottle the drippings."

"Douglas! That's revolting." He giggled.

Douglas' laughter was shameless. "Never fear, darling, I'd be just as curious to get inside the alpha room. Was there a room for betas as well?"

Martin thought. "I don't think so. I think they go wherever they want."

"Right, the idea that betas don't like sex. One which I can severely decry with empirical evidence."

"Me too."

"Really?" Douglas had his tin-opener voice. "Do tell."

Eep. He'd been thinking of Arthur. "No -- nevermind. Just someone I used to go out with. No one you know."

"Well, darling, it's only eight p.m. Are you feeling at all _lonely_?"

"I'm feeling sleepy."

Douglas humphed. "Fine then. I was going to offer you the _dexterous_ _digits_ of Daedalus --"

"Daedalus?"

"The one who _didn't_ make stupidly ambitious altitude adjustments. But if you're set on a _quiet night in_ , I suppose it's a book and to bed with me."

Martin stretched, knowing his moan gave away his body language. "Any of the things you mentioned sound charming, but I think it's a tinned supper and to bed for me, as well."

"Such an ascetic. Oh, nearly forgot to mention. Your boss knows you're pregnant and is punishing us with an eight a.m. paperwork call."

Martin sprang out of bed. " _What_. _did you. do?_ "


	9. Norwegian Wood part a

 

"What did Carolyn talk to you about in her office after we landed?" Martin said.

"Nothing interesting," Douglas said, stirring the peas and listening to Martin clank his cutlery. "She's still claiming it's well within her rights to pack you up in a shipping crate and mail you to Abu Dhabi, where 'unpaid underlings know their use.'"

"Wonderful. Well." Martin philosophically considered the steak knives. "Thank you for letting me handle it, then. I'm perfectly capable of talking to Carolyn about my own welfare."

It was cute, in a homey sort of way, that Martin had taken to touching his stomach absent-mindedly. Martin wandered to Douglas' elbow and sniffed at the bubbling pots on the stove suspiciously. Douglas handed him a spoon to give him something to do. Martin smiled and attacked the frying onion gravy.

"Careful," Douglas said, watching the steam curl Martin's fringe. "It's supposed to caramelize."

At week thirteen, Martin was still constantly knackered. He complained that things smelt funny, got up for a wee ten times a flight, but he'd stopped throwing up all the time. It helped that he'd finally allowed Douglas to ban all Shappian culinary attempts from the flight deck, and instead packed tidy bentos for them both. Being useful again filled the scatter-shot dimples of loneliness inside Douglas that he’d been ignoring with a hard shellac of alcohol and casual sex.

After dinner, Douglas came out of the kitchen to find Martin camped on the living room carpet, flipping through his records, rapidly making his way from one side of his bookcase to the other. Ah. He supposed his secret would have to come out eventually.

"'Don't know anything about pop music,' Douglas?" Martin held up Eric Clapton.

"Be careful with that, it's autographed." Douglas leaned against the wall, watching Martin as he sat like a teenager in front of the dusty, neglected collection.

Martin inspected the jacket and whistled. "That's a tale, no doubt."

"Naturally."

Martin returned the record to its spot, carefully flipping the dust-topped covers. Some of those, Douglas had been porting across flats since uni. It wasn't the music, really; he hardly listened to them. There were just some relics one didn't discard.

"David Byrne, Roxy Music, the Stones, _The White Album_."

"Well, that one's issued with British citizenship." Douglas rested his arms on the back of his leather armchair, watching Martin’s investigation.

Martin smiled as his nimble fingers flipped the titles. "So, what you meant was, you know nothing about music made after the invention of the micro-- ooh. I have this on my computer."

"One doesn't throw out one's youth, Martin. Uni were some very good years to me."

He left Martin to it while he returned to clean up the kitchen. Ah, the joys of dating youth. Surely he was a good influence on the boy, who stacked his CDs like coasters. Douglas had seen them -- a standard Billy Joel, one generic classical mix put out by the BBC, and _Rubber Soul._  

Douglas preferred the later Beatles work, generally; that was the stuff that found him when he was at odds as a teenager. John had been the first pop star to come out as an omega, which had made Douglas question the whole sexual proscribed role thing. In the early 60s, it had been assumed that the four lads were all alphas, as all popular, masculine pop stars were marketed as.But later, John and Yoko came out as omegas and pro-free love publically on a talk show.

John said he spent his life trying to hide his gender and it had made him very angry against omegas, and thanked Yoko for allowing him to accept his omega-ness. They held their bed-in whilst both were pregnant from donor sperm, and John wrote the still controversial song "Omegas Are the N------ of the World." Douglas still wasn't sure what that was about.

As far as Douglas could tell from the music, George and Ringo considered gender a bit silly -- the sly line "the walrus was Paul" was a bit of piss-taking at pregnant McCartney, hiding in the Cotswolds in ‘65, enormous as a submarine. The 70s had been more liberal than today, and a fun decade for Douglas. He came out bisexual then, and no one bothered him much, not in London. But as the 70s blended into the 80s and then the first female alpha PM, and then the mining industry crash . . .

As Douglas finished the dishes and dried his hands, Martin stopped fiddling with the turntable, and a record dropped down. Douglas knew the record by the pattern of dust catching in the needle. Some sounds were ingrained in one's soul.

No one officially knew Ringo's gender -- even now he professed that it didn't matter -- and his movie _Caveman_ even featured a gay alpha male couple. George, an alpha, said in interviews that the Beatles' varied genders were the secret of their innovation. He encouraged fans to appreciate the music beyond gendered messages.

"I just put that on," Martin said, as Douglas approached the record player. He picked up the needle. There was a hitch of vinyl, and the open guitar chords began.

_Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it just to reach you . . ._

Douglas turned, a graceful heel-toe-step, to stand tall above Martin, sitting cross-legged on the carpet. When he extended a hand, Martin allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Douglas pulled him against his chest, kissing his knuckles, as they moved to the music. Martin notched his forehead into Douglas' throat and hummed a sigh. They danced across the carpet, socks and sated bellies, scratchy old record, candle throwing vanilla light reflected from the piano lid.

"You feel good," Douglas said into sweet-smelling red hair.

"You too."

The enthralling part about Martin was the challenge. At work, he was a prim, professional pilot; at home, his sex drive had grown to shocking and _exploratory_ proportions. They'd dabbled in straps, spanking, teasing -- all things Douglas dearly loved. Martin looked simply gorgeous trying to thrust his hips up to meet Douglas' tongue, but he stubbornly denied all conversation afterward. He tried getting Martin to open up about his hidden kinks, but he remained adorably shy.

Douglas ran a hand down his spine, stopping at the base to tuck his fingertips into the back of Martin's trousers. It was a good angle to tip Martin's hips into his, pulling them _mano-a-mano_ as it were. Martin's arms came tight around him and he snuggled in. The short songs -- twin songs of sweetness -- came to an end, and the record fuzzed to a stop.

Martin tilted his head up, and Douglas met his lips. He tasted of and the sugary burn of buttercream frosting with the spice of tea.

Douglas thought they were making rather good progress when Martin pulled back so fast, their lips sounded like a cork pulled from a wine bottle.

"Sorry," Martin said. "But I really can't decide most nights if I'm going to sleep or throw up. Or have a wee."

"Your three new favorite hobbies."

"Sorry." Martin's color was high, drawing his freckles out. Pregnancy had given him a few more. 

"Quite all right. Do you need to lie down?"

Martin sniffed, all Captain Crieff. "Hmm, I wonder how you'll 'help' me feel better?" But he followed Douglas toward the bedroom.

"Rather think we'll both be feeling better by the time I'm through. Don't bother trying to convince me you don't appreciate my unflagging appreciation."

Martin leaned back against the doorframe, looking down at their linked hands. "I -- I know you're up to something, Douglas. I'm not going to ask you."

"I'm not," Douglas lied.

"You are. I -- I looked at your phone. Don't get that look! I have a right, we're living together."

His heart pounded. Martin -- the suspicious little sneak -- was always around, at work, at home. He hardly could make a phone call without being overheard. Douglas kissed those fair, bony hands.

"It's -- it's nothing, Martin --"

"Is it someone else?"

"Martin!"

"You have three ex-wives, Douglas --"

He placed a hand to his heart. "Not due to cheating, Martin, I swear. It's just business, really. My business."

Martin peered up at him. Douglas tried to look as trustworthy as possible. 

"Just take me to bed," Martin said.

<|>

 

"Oh, my," Carolyn said as she took Douglas' phone from him. "Yes, that's a baby all right."

"Fetus," Martin corrected.

"Yes, I am aware that's they do it," Carolyn put on her glasses for a better look at the sonogram. "How many weeks are we?"

"That's the ten week, but we're past three months," Douglas said, standing over Martin in Carolyn’s office. "We're due to go for a second look soon."

"My trousers are starting to feel tight," Martin complained.

"It isn't noticeable," Carolyn said without looking at him.

"You just don't want to buy me a new uniform," Martin muttered.

"You'll only pop out of it in a week, anyway. You claim to be a clever man, can't you think of a way to make it fit?"

Martin could think of a few dozen objections, but Arthur hopped into the conversation, all joy and exuberance.

"Can I see if she's got a willy or not?" Arthur said, lunging across the desk to take the phone. "Wow! It's _huge!_ "

"Arthur, we won't even have faintest idea if Little Miss Muffet is a Wee Martin or a Miniature Douglas for months," Carolyn said.

"I meant her head." Arthur jabbed the image, almost knocking the phone from Carolyn's hand in his excitement. "Look, she's got little armsy and legsy buds and one big, ginormo head! She's like a wee, budding cactus."

Martin crossed his legs.

"Congratulations, Arthur." Douglas placed a hand on Martin's shoulder. "You've just single-handedly given Martin _Aliens_ meets _Flipper_ meets _Innerspace_ nightmares for months."

"Brilliant!"

"Ye-es," Douglas said. "Perhaps we'll screen it in the waiting room during the birth."

"Okay!"

"Douglas," Martin said quietly.

"What a perfect, relaxing idea," Douglas finished, "short of the chest-bursting bit in _Alien_."

Arthur looked between the two of them. The smile drifted from his face. "Oh. Right. Sorry." He handed his mother the phone and wandered out of the inner office. The sound of cupboards opening drifted from the stewarding section of the Portakabin.

Carolyn seemed indifferent to her son's disappearance from the conversation. Instead, she beckoned Douglas to sit beside Martin on the folding chairs before her metal desk. "Come, gentlemen, we have much to discuss. As loathe as I am to admit it."

Martin glanced at Douglas, nibbling his lip. Douglas touched him between his shoulder blades. This was not going to be a simple conversation.

<|>

"Of course, I have to pay you something, otherwise I'll have a picket line of omega rights' rabble rousers outside the gates." Carolyn steepled her fingers and straightened her spine to make use of all her five-foot-three. "Thank you, Douglas, for driving that point home with such enthusiasm."

Martin eyed the innocent-faced man. "Thank you, _Douglas_? What did you tell her?"

"I was only trying to help your case," Douglas said calmly, hands folded over his crossed knees. Martin clenched his fists in his pockets, attempting to convey _We will talk about this later._

Unperturbed, Carolyn took out a slim folder. "Well, as I said before, it's quite simple. Martin needs money. MJN has no money unless we make more of it on a monthly basis. I'd ask if either of you have any idea on that front, but so far your marketing skills seem to extend to being turned down by attractive people in airport bars. So, I'm afraid we shall have to make cuts."

Martin went cold all over. The fetus inside him felt heavy and dependent. His fingers strayed to the edge of the cushion beneath him, twirling a thread between icy fingertips.

"Actually," Douglas said, "I've been meaning to bring up the possibility of a business deal that would benefit MJN. And me -- that is, Martin and me, of course, on a commission rate basis."

Carolyn arched one slender, penciled eyebrow. "Isn't this convenient. Do tell, Douglas, what innovation have you been working on, of which you’ve only now thought to inform me?"

"Yes, _do tell us_ ," Martin hissed, glaring at him. If this was some scheme to pull money from Carolyn that simply didn't exist -- you can't grow fruit trees in the arse end of Alaska, no matter how slick the farmer.

"Well, it's nothing extraordinary." Douglas retrieved his phone from his inner breast pocket. "I simply reconnected with an old acquaintance."

Carolyn leaned back in her chair, staring him down like a cobra deciding if a given specimen of rodentia was worth the fight. "You mean one of your bottom-feeder smuggling contacts from your Air England days. How long have you been sitting on this?"

"Honestly, Carolyn, he's a perfectly effective businessman who's served his debt to society," Douglas said without looking up from the device. Martin couldn’t help the snort he didn't bother to conceal. " _Anyway_ , he runs a consulting business -- a very successful endeavor, apparently -- and flies all over the world at a moment's notice. Asia, South Africa, America -- good runs, nice places."

"I'm sure he picks only the largest of cities full of new faces who wouldn't recognize his," Carolyn said. "So you've tricked, conned, or bribed him to contract with us?"

"More like _proposed_. I don't know where this suspicion comes from." Douglas was starting to sound hurt. "I bring you a perfectly legitimate contact --"

"What's the catch," Martin said.

" -- in exchange for a bit of babysitting. When the time comes."

"Oh, Douglas," Martin said. "That's extremely unprofessional." Now we’re smuggling babies, he thought.

"Not to mention a liability nightmare," Carolyn put in. But she was looking at her folder with a miserable finality. Dread was filling Martin from heels to fringe.

"No, no," Douglas said. "It's a _child-care scheme_. Lots of businesses have them. We can get Martin licensed up, no problem, he's our token omega!"

Martin whirled on him. "Douglas. Whose. Child. Are. We. Sharing."

"I don't think he means Arthur," Carolyn said.

Douglas passed his phone to Martin. Oh, how horrid. "I remember her," Martin said quietly. He shook his head. "This is a mess, I don't believe you." He passed the phone to Carolyn.

She raised her eyebrows. "I hope you're not going to tell me that your underworld slime is married to this pregnant child."

"Of course not! What do you take me for? It's his daughter, she's seventeen."

"Robert Cosas," Martin said, looking away. "He was at that horrible doctor's visit. He tried to come into the room."

Douglas winced. "I'm not calling him a delicate touch, but his money is good, and we'll be helping a young girl stay in school. It'll only be for ten months, Martin, you'll be home with our baby anyway, is another so different?"

Martin leapt to his feet. "I'm glad you've got it all worked out then!"

The door slammed so hard, it sprung from the hinges.

Douglas and Carolyn stared at the spot where Martin had been.

"What did I do?" Douglas said.

<|>

Martin flew out of Mum's office like GERTI on cheetah food. The sleeves of Solo cups jumbled themselves up, all trying to escape the cupboard at once. Arthur watching helplessly as the one on top tipped onto the floor. Twenty-five pounds a carton, Mum always reminded him. Nothing on GERTI was free.

"Oh, Arthur." Skip stopped to watch Arthur scramble to catch the ones that hadn't touched the floor. "Just throw them out."

"It's okay," Arthur said. "I can wash them. No one will know."

"I'll know, and I drink out of those sometimes. Do you do that often?"

"No! Only when I drop them." About half the sleeve was recovered. How many pence per cup? He figured it out once, with a calculator, and wrote it all down. "Mum says I'm not to waste company money." He carefully stacked the dirty ones wide-side-down on the table. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine, it's just --" Skip tried to smile but it came out all twisty and fake, like an Action Man left out in the sun. "Look, Arthur, why don't we go out for a drink after work?"

Arthur knew Skip was trying to make up for being angry, because of course he wasn't angry at Arthur, he was just stressed. Or whatever. Skip was his friend, he liked him lots, but he just didn't want to go out with him again. Their trip to the club had been brilliant, obviously. He just didn’t want to do that again, and Arthur didn't know why.

"Sorry, Skip, I've, um. Got to clean up here." Arthur turned back to his Solo cups so he couldn't see Skip shrug and slip out the door.

Mum's office door snapped open again.

"Martin!"

It was sort of interesting watching Douglas chase Martin across the tarmac. He ran a bit like a penguin did on the ice. Martin was more like a stick-man, usually, but now that he was pregnant, there was a bit of penguinish wobble to him, too. He held his tummy a lot, too, like he was thinking secret messages at the baby. Arthur thought he'd like to be able to draw cartoons about his friends, only he hadn't any talent at it.

"Will you two come back here?" Mum didn't slam or shout, she sort of stood in the doorway and made you feel foolish for doing either of those things.

"They're gone." Arthur pointed with his Solo cup robot arm.

"Idiots," she growled. "What are you doing?"

Arthur pointed at the cups cupboard. "Stocking."

"Don't drop them."

"I know."

If she didn't actually ask, it wasn't a lie. He could put a little mark on the top of the sleeve and wash that one on GERTI later. It would be something to do while Mum was sleeping on a long flight, and finding ways to dry them before she woke, and without the guys coming into his galley without asking -- which they did sometimes but it was a bit nice sometimes if your friends visited you instead of the other way round -- would be like a game.

"Mum?"

She turned, grumpy-faced. He'd interrupted her thinking again.

"Why are Skip and Douglas shouting at one another?"

Mum waved a hand like, silly stupid idiots. Mum didn't notice that pilots were brilliant. "Lovers' tiff. Can you go fetch them in about twenty minutes, please? That ought to give them enough time to have it out and be ready to behave like the grownup professionals they fancy themselves to be. Feel free to use Snoopadoop's lead if you require assistance in the task."

"Sure! Mum?"

"What is it, Arthur?"

"Nothing. Only. Since we're not doing anything, um?"

She folded her arms, which meant he could talk for about five minutes.

"I'm always doing something, dear heart. But since you're trying to tell me something, why don't get it over with so as not to put us through this pain again."

Arthur swallowed. Cast about. His mother's eyes could hypnotize. She could make him kill, probably, or throw himself into a pit of boiling lava.

"Nothing. Just. I, um." How to say. . . . "You know Auntie Ruth?"

"We've met. Regrettably."

"Right." No, there was nothing to say about her. "Right. So, you know Douglas?"

"Arthur, what in all hells --?"

"Douglas is bisexual?" he squeaked.

Mum sat in Martin's chair and closed her eyes. Arthur thought he ought to brew her a cup of tea, very quickly.

"W-what do you think of that?" he said.

Mum rubbed her eyeballs, like, through her eyelids. Headache. "I think it's none of my concern. I don't know why you should need to know, either."

"What if it was your concern?" Arthur tried again.

"I don't see how it could possibly be." She took down a mug and waved a tea tin in his general direction. "Don't you go pestering him, it's a very private subject, not to mention you can’t be sure if it's true. You wouldn't want to upset Martin over nothing, would you?"

"No." He hadn't thought of that.

Mum took down a second mug and tipped an envelope of cocoa into it. She went about boiling the water as she spoke. "People like that have a rough go of it these days. Frankly, I don't know how they get on, living in secrecy and whatnot. I should think that if they had a choice with whom to spend their time, they'd have a bit of self-respect and choose someone with whom they can go about in public." Mum handed him his cocoa.

Arthur could taste his breakfast burrito in the back of his throat. A sound like engines pounded behind his eyes. The mug was hot, the steam muddy-sweet.

"All right?" She sipped her lemon tea. Mum didn't like sweet things.

"Yes, Mum."

"I'm glad we're clear. Now, leave me be, I have work to do."

Arthur jumped as her partition door slammed shut.

<|>

"What's wrong with this one?" Martin said.

"Nothing. I suppose you'll get used to the constant threat of certain immolation, just don’t expect me to sleep over."

Martin was getting a headache. He shifted on Douglas' lap, taking the mouse back from him to click back to the search fields. He re-entered the maximum rent, aiming for practicality rather than comfort. They'd been going back and forth all evening. Martin had found half a dozen perfectly serviceable flats. Douglas kept running down every place that didn't come with a doorman.

"Douglas, I can't afford to live in a complex, and I'm not sure I want to. Look, this converted house has a back garden. I could plant tomatoes and a cat. That's perfect."

Douglas looked in skepticism at any flat that came with the words "converted." He'd been treated them as anathema as electronics labeled "refurbished." Why buy repaired when you can afford fresh from the factory? Martin was _this_ close to applying for a council flat just to irritate him. Maybe he could take in a little drug dealing on the side.

"You can plant your cat in a complex and it will grow safer inside. Who knows what kind of animals roam around those types of neighborhoods. Besides, why do you want to live on the ground floor?"

"As oppose to carrying a pram up a flight every day?"

"I thought you were concerned about getting your svelte body back."

"Funny."

Douglas nudged some of Martin's search adjustments back up. Martin moved the location parameters farther into the suburbs, trying to make a point. Convenience, safety, affordability: pick two.

"You still haven't told me how much," Martin reminded him.

"How much what?" Douglas said, all wide-eyed and play-stupid.

Martin pinched his neck. "How much you've decided to put in?" 

The cursor wheeled about the screen. "Now, I've looked at my accounts very carefully, and you have to remember, you will be earning something as a pilot -- "

"How much, Douglas."

"Four hundred."

"Per month?" Martin closed his eyes. “In pounds or gold doubloons?”

"I know that sounds modest, but that's just what I've budgeted for rent, of course there'll be money for the child. An-and you as well. I've worked it out on a legal pad, here, let me show you."

Martin dropped his head down onto the desk with a thunk. It felt nice. He felt the kind pressure of Douglas’ hand at the base of his spine.

"Martin, please, just look --"

"I can't do this."

Douglas was silent. The hand went away. A desk drawer opened and closed.

"Martin, please. I'm sure you'll feel better when you see that it's all planned. You like spreadsheets, don't you?"

Martin lifted his head. A paperclip, stuck to his forehead, dropped into his lap. Douglas controlled the corners of his mouth, for his own safety.

Martin rubbed his forehead. "I can't take what little money you need for your daughter and -- how many wives are you supporting?"

Douglas' face went blank. "I don't see how that's any of your business."

"It is my business when you can't afford us all! How long before you can't stand the sight of me?"

Douglas sat back from the computer. "I told you that I'm committed to taking care of you --"

Martin pushed off of Douglas' lap. Didn't they have a second chair in this place? He couldn't fucking breathe. They worked together, slept together, talked on the phone. Wasn't he allowed to do anything on his own? Couldn't he choose his own flat if he wanted?

"Douglas . . . I appreciate that you want to take responsibility. I do, really. But this baby is going to end up mine no matter what. If you think that paying for us means that you get to tell me how to live, or what I can tolerate in my personal life . . ." Martin stopped. He didn't know where that came from. This wasn't coming out right. "I only mean, I'm still going to work."

"You'd better be, it's in my budget." Douglas was trying to kid, but Martin knew he was walking on thin ice. But this needed to be said.

"I'll never be your omega, Douglas. I'm sorry, I'm just not that type of --"

Genuine anger crossed Douglas' face. "Stop saying that! Did I say I want to keep you like a pet? Stop acting like me taking responsibility for my actions is tantamount to dressing you in heels and pearls and sticking you in a house-omega fetish porno!"

Martin felt his jaw go slack as he stared at the fury on Douglas' face. Had Douglas put thought into that fantasy?

He couldn't speak when Douglas stood, hoisting himself up by the chair back. He seemed tired. Tired of Martin. He put space between them and wouldn’t look Martin in the eye.

"I just -- I need a break, all right?" Douglas waved a hand at the computer. "Why don't you find a few flats you like and we'll look them over, okay?"

Martin hovered at the edge of the room, afraid to move too close. It seemed wrong to sit in Douglas' big office chair while the man was still in the room. Douglas hesitated at the door, big fingers drumming on the frame.

"I'm sorry," Martin said.

Douglas nodded. "Yeah. Look, we'll work this out, okay? Maybe you're right. I'm going for a walk before -- I'm going for a walk."

Heart pounding, Martin watched Douglas go. He'd seen Douglas irritated, sarcastic, annoyed, impatient, and fed up. Never angry.

He sat at the desk. As soon as he heard the door slam, Martin burst into tears.


	10. Norwegian Wood part b

Arthur scuffed his shoe in the dirt. It was still hot in his car from being parked at the airfield in the sun all day. The aircon didn't work very well, so he kept the windows open the whole drive to James' school.

_It's okay if you can't come, I'm just a bit worried. - Bear_

He pressed send and waited. The carpark was silent in the spring air as the sun set behind the tall, brick art building. Arthur's phone remained lifeless in his hand. Maybe James had turned his off again, or forgot it? Maybe he was driving, for some reason, even though he was supposed to be leaving his class now . . . maybe James realized that he was tired of Arthur.

A big class let out, or a bunch of little ones at the same time. Lots of students carrying rolled up papers, tackle boxes stuck with stickers streamed past. Arthur liked uni, or at least the idea of it. So many interesting people with so many hair colors! all knowing where to go and what to do.

He scanned the big, grassy lawn in front of the classroom building for tall James and his enormous, leather portfolio. Wednesday nights was sketch class, which wasn't brilliant; he preferred to paint. Murals, actually, big, colorful things that were very Influential and Gave Exposure to Important Issues. (Except the one he did for the zoo; that was influential in giving exposure to monkeys, and was Arthur's favorite. They just looked so cheerful.)

James didn't appear.

He must have forgotten to say that his class was canceled. Maybe something came up with his brother's wedding. James was under a lot more stress than most of the kids, being older and working.

Arthur looked up James' number and pressed send. He paced a bit in the sandlot carpark as he waited, listening to his kicks grinding the grit, imagining the rubber rubbing away and leaving his feet bare and sore. When it went to voicemail, he fell  against his car in defeat. The spotty blue metal was warm against his bum, despite the cool air coming from the darkening parts of the sky in the west.

"Hi," he said at the beep. "I guess you forgot. It's okay, we can go another time. I just miss you. Um, this is Ar-- er, Bear. Sorry, sorry, that was stupid. Um, can you call me? Even if it's late? I'm okay, everyone's fine. Only maybe not really-really fine."

Arthur looked up at the sky, the pinky-purple whispies, the empty tree sticks dotted with buds. Bundles of kids were getting into their cars, or smoking on the benches they had moved to make friendly talking-cubes.

"It was a not-brilliant day," he said. "Those happen, right? It's really great when -- when your best mate is doing really great things . . . so he doesn't want to talk to you anymore. And . . . I guess Douglas is always winding Mum up, only she's never been so upset before. I guess money does funny things to people. Especially when they don't have any. It's not anyone's fault that no one talks to me until stuff's already happened. I guess you kind of know what that's like."

Arthur swallowed. The tape was going to run out.

"Anyway! I'm okay! I just really, really wanted to see you. Call me, okay? And, you know. One-four-three. Bye."

The faint whiff of reefer floated from the quad. Party and club were stuck to every surface. A cute omega girl walked past him. He smiled. She hugged her books to her chest. As she passed, she flipped two sparkle-painted fingers at him.

Arthur was tired of uni.

<|>

Douglas didn't do arguing. Bad things happened. Bars were stopped in, bottles purchased, things were said that couldn't be taken back.

Someone he had met when he was drying out -- a very good friend -- gave him a very good bit of advice. Now, when Douglas was feeling that old that self-preservation sitting on his shoulder, telling him to fight like a mangy junkyard dog lest all be lost, he walked away.

He left his money and his keys at in his flat. If he couldn't buy alcohol, or get into a car, he couldn't get himself into trouble. Although, he was starting to worry that he could actually walk his anger out so hard up into the hills behind the high street, that he might actually pop an artery. Wouldn't that be interesting. Wouldn't Martin be sorry, the great git.

No, no, that was the alcoholism. Martin had a right to his feelings and temperament and whatever the hell was going on in his mad head. The boy was secretive as a lock box. Douglas may be a bit self-absorbed -- he was aware -- but it had occurred to him that more was going on with Martin than a bit of financial fear or romantic insecurity. Martin Had Issues.

Douglas was too goddamn old for Issues.

In general, he didn't like therapy. Or the things that drove people into therapy. His first wife had been a sweet, troubled young omega whom he thought he could nurture into the bright, rising legal aide she wished to be, if only she could get away from her oppressive family who wouldn't even let her attend school past the sixth form. Sure, she'd gained confidence under Douglas' kind encouragement, and she'd flown right into another alpha's bed.

He was too old for coddling. Martin needed to deal with his shit and get it together. He was supposed to be responsible for another life soon, for fuck's sake. Not to mention captaining a great hulking tube of rusting tin they tricked into flying great distances at least twice a week. He wasn't a child anymore.

Douglas turned east and put the sunset to his back.

<|>

"I'm sorry," were the first words to greet Douglas. Martin looked a bit wet. As Douglas pulled him into a hug, he reminded himself that the man couldn't be responsible for his hormones.

"I'm sorry, too," Douglas said. "It's a stressful situation. Disagreements are only natural. We should be able to sort them out maturely."

Martin nodded. "I did what you asked. It wasn't difficult, I can show you."

Douglas held him, wouldn't let him skitter away. "It's okay, it can wait. I'm proud of you for holding it together and getting something practical done."

Martin snorted. "It was just a bit of clerical work, Douglas. Only took me about ten minutes once I put in the right search criteria. I just put the kettle on, do you want a cup?"

The spring air had been refreshing but brisk. Douglas and Martin sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around mismatched mugs of tea. Martin was drinking a very specific kind of herbal stuff, cleared for baby. Douglas had never cared for boiled weeds.

Martin looked up at him over his mug. Douglas waited.

"There are provisions for couples who are living together, even if they're not married," Martin said. "I looked it up. Tax benefits, hospital rights -- do you know, if I died in labor, since we're not coupled up in any legal way, Baby Girl Crieff isn't legally yours without a fight? She'd go to my mother, or maybe Simon."

"Yes, I do know that," Douglas said. "Don't think I haven't been looking into it." His solicitor was drawing up documents.

"I looked at your spreadsheet," Martin said. "You're counting on Bobby Cosas getting us three flights a week at six times our regular rate. Douglas, even if we did book that many flights from one customer, we would have to cancel all our other flights. Carolyn worked hard to make those connections, she's not going to just burn all our bridges -- what if Bobby fires us suddenly?"

"That doesn't mean we have to turn him down entirely." Douglas looked over Martin's ear, keeping his face impassive. This deal wasn't Martin's business. He knew what he was doing.

"No. But our ship has most definitely not come in. Even though I'm amazed and -- and very impressed that you thought of the company for once."

Interesting. "Well --"

Martin put up a hand. "Yes, I recognize that you were entirely thinking of yourself, but you did inadvertently bring us all a little bit of success, and this wasn't about swooping in like Superman to fix something Arthur broke -- or I, um, made a perhaps ill-informed yet completely understandable decision."

Douglas knew when to let Martin's captainly babblings lie unmolested.

"This was a mature, professional, business-oriented move." Martin smiled and reached for Douglas across the table. "I'm very, very impressed."

Apparently the way to Martin's heart wasn't only through his stomach.

"Anything for the company," Douglas said. "I take it you've been plotting. What have you come up with?"

Martin had a spreadsheet. "We do this right. Get a broker, and find a decent place. Two bedrooms -- no, three. One for us, one for the baby, and one just for -- for the screaming. That shall inevitably commence when I realize I'm trapped in a house with a man who slurps oysters like a great walrus while he watches cars run around in a circle all afternoon."

"You liked the oysters." Douglas pressed a kiss into his warm palm.

Martin wriggled his hand away.

Douglas watched him, curious. "Martin, is something bothering you?"

"What? No. Of course not."

Douglas nodded. "As I recall, this is precisely what I suggested two months ago."

Martin stirred his boiled herbs. "Yes, well, your place is too small, so this this way, I'm not moving in with you. We're starting fresh in our own place. And, I didn't fully appreciate the benefits of sharing money and the chores --"

"And a bedroom."

Martin ducked, looking up through his eyelashes. "Is that okay?"

Douglas stood, rounded the table, and kissed him. "You know, for a self-made omega, you sure know when to turn on the submissive charm."

They kissed. Martin wrapped his arms around Douglas' shoulders, squeaking in surprise as Douglas pulled him to the edge of his chair, kissing as he wrapping them up together, pulling his ankles around his waist. Martin giggled, holding on. He stood, taking Martin with him. Oof, he'd gained weight.

"Douglas!" Martin shrieked, holding on.

Douglas smacked his bum. Martin yelped, giggling, and wriggled in his arms. Douglas turned, propping Martin up against the post of the half-wall, pressing their groins flush together. They kissed, thoroughly and with utter abandon. He seized Martin's lower lip and sucked, bit down gently, flicking his tongue on the trapped flesh. Martin grinned and kissed back as his fingers twined in Douglas' hair.

"You like my submissive charm," Martin said.

Douglas pushed off from the post and carried his silly, clever boy to the bedroom.

<|>

Arthur went to the cinema alone.

<|>

 _Do you want --_? he pressed into Martin's skin.

Martin writhed, back arching like a cat's, knees splayed. He nodded and allowed his hands to be pinned above his head.

_Stay._

Leather cuffs, new to Martin, different for him not to have his hands. They were well-oiled and soft, supple from gentle care, and sized large for a man's wrists. Douglas liked the look of the firm, wide pressure against Martin's slender bone structure as he secured them by a short chain looped about a dowel in the headboard.

Proper nipple clamps, a slender vibe. Douglas looked down at his quarry, flushed and trussed to the quick.

 _What shall I do now_?

_Play with me?_

He leaned over this prize, kissing, teasing, as his heart threatened to give out at the utter endless expanse of Martin's slender, pale flesh. He was an open toybox, freely given for experimentation at his leisure. Martin's newly swollen areolae were tender to play with; he writhed and grew harder when Douglas pinched his nipples at even a half twist of the clamp's knobs, to say nothing of the noises Martin made when Douglas sucked hard.

His stomach was firm, with a slight softness starting to grow over the defined muscles. He would be lush, soon, Douglas thought as he buried his face in that belly, swirling the tip of his pointed tongue over the sensitive naval.

Martin spread his thighs without being prompted, asking for more.

_Please._

_"Turn over_ ," Douglas said.

Martin paused. Douglas smacked his flank with a teasing smirk. "C'mon now, I shan't like to punish you. Unless you want me to."

Martin twisted onto his belly, tightening the chain at his wrists. Douglas traced his spine with gentle fingertips, down, caressing his arse. Martin hummed. Douglas reached lower to spread his thighs, messaging the cleft, pressing into his perineum.  

"Yes?" Douglas said. His fingers dipped into Martin's center.

"Uh huh. Don't stop."

"As if I could."

The slim vibe slid between Martin's cheeks easily with a bit of lube. Douglas spooned up behind him, supporting Martin's upper body, kissing down his neck. Martin turned his face into the pillows, giving Douglas more smooth, soft skin to kiss. Douglas turned the vibe to its softest setting.

"Do you like this?" Douglas said. He teased the nub at Martin's soft pucker.

"Yes," Martin said.

He worked the vibe in small circles.

"Have you ever been fucked while you were tied down?"

"No."

Douglas pressed the vibe, watching the tapered end slowly disappear into the extraordinarily sensitive vestibule of Martin's entrance. He knew Martin could come just like this, but not yet. He teased it a bit, making small circles, softening the ring of muscle. Martin moaned. Douglas dribbled on a bit more lube, then pressed deeper, penetrating Martin at last. He turned the vibe to the thrum setting, making it pulse from tip to stem like _Enterprise_ engine nacelles.

"Do you want to try it?" Douglas reached up, checking Martin's hands. The cuffs couldn't cut off circulation, weren't built that way, unless something happened. His hands were warm, pink, healthy.

"I don't know," Martin said, chest hitching. "I . . . no . . . can you keep -- ? That feels really good."

Douglas watched the toy thrust in and out of Martin's sweet arse. He was getting close to desperation, himself.

Douglas curled up behind him. "I'm going to wank you off, then, but I want to hear you come. Can you do that?"

Martin shuddered. "No."

"No?"

"Please don't make me."

Douglas stopped what he was doing, shocked. He switched off the vibe. Martin's breath hitched. He slid the toy from Martin's body and set it aside. Martin didn't move. Genuinely concerned, and more than a little astonished, Douglas unclipped the chain connecting the cuffs. Martin sprang away, fingers flying to the buckles on the cuffs. His face was red and his cheeks were wet. The pillow had a wet spot.

"What on earth . . . Martin, let me. You'll hurt yourself."

Douglas' fingers worked the double buckles with practiced motions, even as Martin's hands shook. He tossed the cuffs over the side of the bed where they landed with a heavy thump. He reached for Martin, but he pulled away. Why hadn't he _said something_?

"I'm sorry," Martin said. "I -- I need some air? Some water?"

"Let me get it." But Martin was on his feet. Douglas followed him out of bed, out of their bedroom.

"No, it's okay." Martin's voice in the darkness was calm, but his body was one big twitch. "Thank you."

By the time he reached the kitchen sink, Douglas heard him crying. Great, heaving sobs, the way a man cries when he's used to hiding it. Douglas paused in the hall outside the living room, giving Martin his illusion of privacy. After a moment, when the worst of it had subsided, Douglas approached him in the kitchen. Martin didn't seem to register his presence, or trusted that he wasn't a threat. Douglas took a juice tumbler from the dishwasher and filled it from the dispenser in the fridge door. The dispenser cast watery, blue light in the darkness when Douglas activated it.

Martin took the glass in both hands and pressed it to his forehead.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Douglas shook his head. "Come sit. We don't have to go back to bed yet." He nodded toward the sofa. There was a blanket there Martin liked, maybe they could play the records again. Martin liked his records . . .

Martin took the soft throw and curled into one corner of the sofa. Douglas knelt at his feet, wanting to be near him but not crowd him.

"I suffer from claustrophobia at times," Martin said. "It's situational. I don't have fits. It's only from my dad -- he was really very controlling."

Dark, rumbling anger rolled at the edge of Douglas' perception. "I see."

"I think I'm ready to tell you about all that," Martin said. "If you want to hear."

Douglas didn't want to hear it. He had no choice. His knees were killing him. He knuckled up and sat on his chair.

He said, "I think you'd better start at the beginning."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they start therapy and Martin tells all.
> 
> tw: child abuse, covert childhood sexual abuse

Martin was awake. Douglas was not.

He stretched, spine cracking, shoulders popping. The weight of the day fuzzed at the edge of his perception. He pressed it away. Instead, he turned into Douglas, on his side, belly carelessly poking into the center of the bed. One hand was tucked under his chin while the other was crossed over his bare chest, almost protectively. Martin could imagine a teddy curled into that arm. Did baby photos of Douglas exist? There must be.

Douglas looked tired even when he slept. His brows creased and his jowls fell over his mouth. He looked annoyed. Martin reached over, tucking one wild side of his fringe out of his eyes. Douglas sighed deeply up from sleep.

"We have to get up," Martin said.

Douglas muttered something. Martin crowded up into his bodyheat, pressed his leg between Douglas', and was tugged in like an octopus who had seized his prey.

"Douglas! Up," Martin said, giggling.

Douglas hid his eyes in Martin's shoulder, rolling half his body atop him, one hand resting comfortably over Martin's belly. He buried his eyes in Martin's neck, huffing a deep sigh.

"'inna min'," the creature grumbled.

Martin wound their legs together, pulling their bodies close. He didn't remember enjoying Douglas' morning _smell_ this much before Douglas infected him with his baby- spores. But this clinginess from Douglas was, well. Nice. Martin wasn't made of _stone_. Before all this happened, he'd been looking, sort of. Just not as athletically as Douglas burnt a streak through the English-speaking air crew of the Western world. Martin didn't understand an endless chain of shared property, broken hearts, "what do you want to do," "if you really loved me I wouldn't have to tell you," endless nightmares.

This was nice. This he could do. This may be rule-less, undefined, the Wild West of relationships -- but he was an aeroplane pilot; men like him were destined to a fly-by-night life style. (As long as they secured a decent interest rate on the mortgage and Douglas didn't actually do any flying by night anymore. Figuratively, of course, because literal night flights statistically have the highest pay and least troublesome passengers, like furniture.)

Moving in with Douglas was probably for the best, even if Douglas was already pressing on his time with this daft childcare scheme. But Douglas had made him open up about his dad several nights ago, something he'd never seen a reason to discuss with anyone before.

It was fine. He was fine. There was no reason to talk about it. He'd given Douglas a hazy sketch of his, er, childhood issues and that was all he needed to know. He'd put a stop to the kinky sex, as it was clearly unnecessary and causing problems. Clearly that ought to fix things.

There was no reason for Douglas to make them an appointment with a _couples' counselor_.

<|>

For someone who sulked like a child when being driven to therapy, Martin could really get going once provoked. The damn therapist nodded sympathetically, writing down all of Martin's little complaints.

"-- he doesn't even let me take out the garbage on my own. I'm going mad at his! He's _so_ controlling -- He decided that I was the company child minder without even asking me, as if I'd be naturally good at it, or even interested. Did it even occur to you that I want to spend my family leave with my own family?"

Douglas found this entirely unfair. "There was a problem, I found a solution. The _only_ solution. I didn't see you offering any up."

"Did you give me any opportunity? Did you ask if I had any ideas?"

"Do you ever? No, it's, 'let Douglas fix it.' Don't blame me for owning up to my responsibilities --"

Martin had his 'sucked a lemon' mouth. "Don't act a martyr, Douglas, it isn't attractive."

"Gentlemen," their therapist said. "As I was saying. My name is Paul. What, if it isn't too blunt of me to ask, are your names?"

Douglas glowered at the man. He looked like they could've left school within five years of one another, but this one had the smug self-confidence of a man who's been in the same job and marriage for, oh, five or seven centuries. Of course he had all sympathy for pithy little Martin, the stereotypical downtrodden Omega. Probably thought Martin was from the old country, with that hair -- idiot, Martin's people were German. _He_ , Douglas, knew that, because _he_ had sat beside the great orange poof for _billions_ of hours listening to him babble on about everything from poor rejected Pluto to why one should never consume kravklah off a cart in New Deli from a chap called Cut-Me-Own-Throat D'hibla.

"Captain Martin Crieff." Never could keep his mouth shut for more than a minute. "And I lied on the phone. Sorry. I've been to a counselor before."

Douglas knew he was mirroring Martin's posture, burrowing into the opposite side of the sofa, legs and arms crossed, avoiding his childish glares.

Paul leaned back into his arm chair. "I see. That's all right."

"He was lying to me, Doctor," Douglas added. Martin sent him an irritated look. "Well, you were. _Sir_ would never admit to insanity."

" _Douglas_ ," Martin hissed. To Paul, he explained, "The 'sir' is a private joke, because he's my first officer. It's just -- a _very childish joke_ , right, Douglas?"

Call-Me-Paul noted something on his little pad. Was that really necessary? "Gentlemen. I can see you both want to be heard. We have all the time in the world. But let's lay down some ground rules, all right? I'm sure you're used to rules, being pilots."

Douglas smiled, very friendly. If Doc was trying to make nice, he could play along.

Paul ignored him. "One: no name-calling, including sarcastic honorifics. Two: you will let each other speak and make an effort to _hear_ one another. I'm your mediator and it's my job to help you communicate, okay? No refusing to co-operate, I don't want to feel like I'm trying to get my kids to eat their veg."

"Thank you, Doctor," Martin said quietly.

"And you really think you can help us?" Beside him, Martin's fur went up. Uh oh, Mum's having a snit. Douglas was starting to like this game.

Paul smiled easily. "That's entirely up to the two of you. Can you tell me what you'd like to get out of these sessions? Generally?" This buy-in attempt -- similar to a familiar seminar in Ipswitch -- was directed at Douglas.

Martin stared at his shoes, hands unconsciously thrust beneath his thighs. His fingertips were red where he'd chewed on them in the car.

"He's having nightmares," Douglas said.

Martin twisted his entire body away, folding his arms, effectively protecting his body and his child from the outside world. Paul watched him like David Attenborough observing a damned animal in the wild.

"Is that true?" Paul said.

Martin shrugged, staring at Paul's wall of books. Lots of art books, textbooks, lose papers. Bronze baby shoes. No personal photos.

"I don't remember my dreams."

"That's bull, Martin," Douglas said, "you woke up last night clawing the sheets like a caged griffin."

"Douglas!" Martin gave him the scary-eyes.  

The shrink was watching them. Douglas switched his legs, left over right, turning in to Martin. He draped an arm casually over the sofa back. Martin leaned toward him, just slightly.

"Maybe it wasn't a nightmare," Douglas admitted to Paul. "Maybe he just got wrapped up in the sheets."

Martin stared at the sofa cushion, fingers in his mouth again, taking long, slow breaths. Douglas stared that shrink in the eye, daring him to harass Martin while he was going through whatever it was when he got like this.

"We can go," Douglas whispered.

Martin shook his head. "Can you pour me a glass of water, please?"

As Douglas stood and walked to the sideboard where a carafe and glasses were set on a tray, he pondered that if his mother had asked his father that question, he'd probably have locked her in their room for at least a day. He'd been a kind man, a preacher. Ex-military. He believed in orderliness and honest work.

When Douglas returned to the sofa, Martin and the doc were quietly talking.

Paul said, "Martin, you said you had some things come up recently that you wanted to talk about today."

Martin swallowed hard and nodded.

"Usually, I prefer to use the first session as an introduction, and to form a treatment plan, instead of getting into a potentially upsetting conversation. However, if --"

"Oh," Martin said. "Okay. No, that's fine. We don't have to talk about it today."

"We bloody well do," Douglas said. "You're a nervous wreck."

Martin bit his lip. Douglas wanted to move closer, but given Martin's claustrophobia. . . .

Slowly, Paul said, " _However_ , that stuff can hold if this is something you really need to address today."

Martin looked visibly relieved. "That's fine. Yes. Please, I'd like to talk about it. Thank you."

"Thank you, Doctor." Douglas had to admit, not bad for taking them as a charity case.

Martin took a deep breath. "I haven't talked about this before. Should I just -- talk?"

"Just start with what's comfortable right now," Paul said.

Martin nodded, and began.

<|>

_As Martin spoke, the other men listened without interruption, and in the darkening office, the mood became one of a dark confessional, a true life campfire tale._

My dad was the controlling type. When I was little, well, actually, he didn't really take that much interest in me then. I heard him screaming at Caitlyn and Simon a lot -- she's a beta and he's an alpha, they're five and eight years older -- because they were just so _bad_ , like, always defying him. He had such a bad temper. I just wanted to be good, but he really mostly ignored me, at least until I turned eleven.

That's when I started getting, you know, the monthlies. Going into heat. I guess things got weird that year. He started talking to me, or, at me, for one thing.  

My mum came into my room on my second heat and told me that he'd decided I wasn't allowed to use hormone suppressants. I can't imagine where he got that idea into his head. He wasn't really religious and it's like he had no thought to practicalities -- it meant I'd be out of school three days a month. My mum has never said much about those years, just that he read some things in the paper and thought the hormones were unhealthy. Of course, birth control back then for a twelve year old wasn't something that even a doctor would consider.

So, I guess, the biggest part of it, aside from the boredom and being held back in school, was the immediate social reaction. My siblings thought it was all pretty funny. They're so much older, and I felt like such a freak -- I didn't _have_ friends to begin with. So I was home alone a lot, pretty much all the time. I got really depressed, and he was always angry at me.

Also, since I was growing up and letting off totally unpredictable adolescent stink-bombs, my dad noticed older alphas noticing me. He didn't like that. I got a terrible reputation -- for girls, they all turned into these beautiful butterflies, but for me, I was just this repulsive spotty toad who smelled like I wanted it and no one wanted me. Except for perverts.

Anyway. He started to keep me home from school for the whole week, he said it was too dangerous for me to go out, like I was especially sexual or something. He stopped talking to me about work or school or anything, really. This went on until I moved out when I was seventeen. My mum was aware of what was going on, but she didn't say much. She's not the kind of mum you can talk to about, you know, honest things. I love her, though. None of this was her fault.

When I was about fourteen, my dad got laid off from his job and was home in the day. I absolutely hated it. My father was a good man, but I just -- we didn't get on anymore. I avoided talking to him. I couldn't understand what I did to make him unable to just talk to me like a person, at least when I wasn't in heat. Other people did, even perverts who wanted to fuck me. Sometimes I would have nightmares that he'd rape me, or kill me. I saw _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ on telly at a mate's and we sort of got teasing, like boys do, saying about people in our neighborhood were psychos and somehow it got back to my dad and I couldn't shake that idea for a long time. The idea that there was something really _wrong_ with him. I used to write lists in my secret military code of things he'd done, in case I had to leave messages for the police.

I was just a kid, though, just playing.

So, the big thing is that a really, um, weird thing happened. I was fourteen, two years into heats. I think he was trying to be nice. He knew I was holding up in my room with incense to cover up my smell -- because it was really embarrassing, being alone in the house with him all day when I had all these weird, hormone-y feelings. (I'd jump out of my skin when I heard his feet in the hall.)

I'd just gotten out of the shower because I thought cool water would make it, like, better, and I was afraid to come out of my room -- well, obviously not _afraid_ . . . well. No. Just, you know, embarrassed. Sometimes he'd talk to me when I was in my towel, and I just wanted to be allowed to walk down the hall in peace.

Um. Anyway. The weird thing happened when my dad came to my door holding a box. And in the box, to be blunt, was an 'omega aid'. In other words, a dildo. I don't want to know why he had it. I told him no, and go away, and then I just took it, but he wouldn't let me close my door. He wanted to have a chat about it. I was standing there in a fucking towel, because you know -- maybe you don't know, but when you're in the middle of a goddamn heat, you sure as hell don't want to wear clothes or talk to your fucking _father_.

But he wouldn't leave. He kept asking me questions like, "Do you know how to use it?" and "Can I show you how to make the knot blow up?" He thought that was the best part of the toy. He asked me to come to him "at any time" if I needed more batteries.

I _had_ a damned toy by then, my mother had sent me into Boots with her credit card, and it wasn't anything like the disgusting monster he gave me. I mean, it was old, and kind of -- like it had been used. It wasn't in the original box. He didn't think to get lube or, I don't know, anything useful.

So, I just had this thing under my bed for, like, years. I couldn't forget about it, not with him around. I always felt like he was watching me and -- and I don't know. Why didn't I just throw it out? It wasn't like he'd search my room.

It's -- the _whole house_ smelled of him. I couldn't get away from him. No one else seemed to notice. And sometimes, in the van, or when I go back home, it's there, like, _boom_ , I'm thirteen again and . . . I feel . . . I know I shouldn't, but I feel guilty.  

<|>

 

The clock ticked in its glass enclosure, its face a white reflection and half-hidden by the bronze baby shoes. Paul had set his pad aside, leaned forward, and propped his thrust-out chin on his thumb like an eavesdropping sparrow.

Douglas tried not to think shelves and shelves of clear, oak-aged scotch. There was no reason he couldn't buy or steal or ask very nicely for one just about anywhere in town. Except that he couldn't. The recorder of Martin's words would play in his mind in a harsh, grating loop, unlubricated by alcohol, endlessly accurate.

"So," Martin spoke in the grey silence. "That was it. Not really . . . not awful. Nothing they make movies about."

"It sounds horrible," Douglas said.

Martin tensed, shifted. Paul put up his hand to shush Douglas.

"Where you think your guilt comes from, Martin?" Paul asked.

"I don't know."

"I think you used that word for a reason," Paul said.

"What are your dreams about?" Douglas interrupted.

"I said I don't remember them!" Martin said. "It wasn't always -- like that, him talking to me like that, not always. My mum stepped in, it got better."

"Did she tell him to leave you alone?" Paul said.

"No, I don't think she knew he -- he didn't tell her he bought me a toy," Martin said. "She convinced him that I needed to be on hormone suppressants first, but then they added birth control because I was still out of control one day a month, so they stopped the heats completely. So it was really only thirteen to around sixteen, I guess."

"There's nothing wrong with having heats," Douglas snapped. He stood and paced behind the sofa. He leaned over the back and pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. "Are you okay?"

Martin looked at him in confusion. "I know that. I'm fine."

"No, I mean --" Douglas waved a hand at him. "What in _hell,_ Martin? There is nothing wrong with your heats, or your body, or any part of you. Your father was a sick fuck who I'd very much like to stick in a very small box and winch it slowly smaller."

"He died when I was --"

"Eighteen -- I know that!" Douglas exploded in frustration.

Martin looked back and forth between Douglas and Paul. Paul set down his pad and stood to fetch the carafe and top off Martin's glass. He poured another, conducted Douglas to the other armchair, and handed it to him. Martin watched him warily from the opposite side of the sitting area.

"All right. Martin, thank you for sharing," Paul said.

"You asked me to."

"Yes. We appreciate the difficulty of those memories. I think what Douglas is saying is that he's having a hard time understanding the effect those experiences might be having on the person he knows now. Is that right, Douglas?"

"I don't really think that's any of his business," Martin said.

Douglas slapped a palm against the armchair arm. Martin raised an eyebrow. "Not my business? No, I suppose we're just flatmates. Do remember to leave a note if you decide to _run away in the night_. Doesn't bother me, only I'll want time to find a _replacement_."

"Enough," Paul said. "We're out of time. We can pick up on this next week."

As Douglas handed Martin his jacket, he thought this therapy thing was turning out _just fine_. Not at all like a rusty awl root canal.


	12. Chapter 12

The best part of stand-by in another country was the shopping. Definitely. Arthur didn't often buy things, as he was usually skint, because Mum didn't pay him much for being a steward, because she said he lived with her for free and what more did he want? He did like flying and helping Mum and if he could buy all the things, where would he put them? It didn't matter because he preferred to have things that you needed in multiples -- like pants -- in one of each color, and he just finished orange, so --

His mind was doing a thing where he was thinking about the shops and now his mouth wanted the jelly orange slices that have sugar jackets on their outsides. Arthur smiled and walked down the arcade of shops and stalls with speed. It felt pleasant to have a goal.

He texted his plan to his boyfriend. After only a moment, his phone beeped back.

_Sounds ace. I miss you right now, at bedtime. My bed is too big and too cold for jst me._ \- J

 

Arthur thought he shouldn't feel so nice and warm in the sunshine when James told him things like that.

 

_Mr. Flurries could give you a snuggle ... like I wish I could._ \- Bear

 

A wee granny-woman and her granddaughter shoved around him. The girl twisted in her gran's grip, staring at him. She was wearing a plaid school kit, and Arthur wanted to tell her he knew the cartoon character that shaped her shiny knapsack, but he just smiled as her granny pulled her away.

Arthur felt terribly tall and a bit freakish in Beijing, like a comic book man but in an embarrassing way. He could never find t-shirts that fit him. Martin could, but he didn't buy t-shirts on trips. He didn't even go to markets unless he was hungry. Remembering Mum fussing about the cost of tea and dinner at the hotel, Arthur stopped at a snacks stall while he waited for his polo pocket to vibrate, figuring the fresh-made stuff would taste better, too. He liked the meat pies hidden in the gooey rice balls, and the sweet ones for dessert. Beijing was the only place Douglas said he preferred the pork to the fish, so Arthur bought a square take-away container of that over rice for Happy Family sharing, too.

 

_Dad has me composing a sonnet for the wedding ceremony. An actual sonnet, with syllables. I had to FB school friends for help, he's mental. Save me, sweet prince._ \- J

_Wow! I didn't know you're a poet._ \- Bear

_Save me, take me away from these awful people. ... I mean. I'm completely capable of handling myself. ahem. ;) How's China?_ \- J

_Very fun! I'm kipping with Mum and she's let me built a wee tent on the floor, and there's mad Korean game shows on telly, and right now a very old man is playing a very howly violin thingy. Want to hear? -_ Bear

_N-oo-oo that's ok. Uhm, I wanted to tell you, and I didn't get a chance, before you left ... I'm still sorry that I had to disappear before our last date. Are you upset? I really couldn't get away._ \- J

Arthur frowned. His chest did a funny thing he didn't like, not one bit. He put the phone in his pocket. He paid for supper and said "thank you" in Chinese, which he'd written on his hand in English syllables. His phone thumped against his leg the whole walk back to the hotel.

The phone buzzed one more time, then was silent.

<|>

"All I'm saying," Martin's voice carried down the fuselage, "is that I'm not confident I can handle one screaming newborn, let alone two. Think of the liability."

Arthur hipped open the flight deck door. "Hallo, chaps! And Mum." His mother hovered like a grumpy, tiny Yeti in the narrow gap between the pilot seats. The way Yetis do, all growly with purple claws -- nails, painted nails, not ever claws.

"Believe me, I have," she said.

Arthur looked about, holding the tray carefully. He usually reached right between the seats to place the coffees on the cup holder spot, but he couldn't reach right through Mum. She was typically opposed to any nudging or reaching about her in any way.

"They're not that difficult," Douglas said. "They don't move very much, they only want feeding and watering. You can even put them in their little cage."

"Cot," Mum said.

"Infant confinement device and mummy nap enabler."

"That's not how the book says it works," Martin said.

"Oh, sure!" Douglas said. "And then you've got your proto-human noise plug."

"Baby leakage stopper," Mum said.

"You hardly have to do any work at all anymore," Douglas said.

"You two are very poor convincers. I'm not a complete idiot," Martin said.

Arthur's head was whirling. Devices and mechanisms!

"You should listen to your partner, it's all very streamlined these days." Mum and Douglas looked happy.

"Right," Martin said. "And whom, may I ask, _administers_ all these wonderful contraptions?"

" _The clockwork puppet king!"_ Arthur hadn't meant to shout.

Mum grabbed her chests and whirled on her low heels, fingernails sinking into the back of Douglas' chair. "Pity of Pete, Arthur, what's got into you?"

Martin snapped his dials while Douglas took the coffees off Arthur's tray. Well, coffee and green tea. Douglas told him he wasn't allowed to give Martin coffee anymore, no matter how many times Martin insisted just one cup, once in a while, would make a super-baby.

"Sorry!" Arthur said. "Nothing. Um, Mum, the gentleman in 2A is upset we won't upgrade him."

"Where to, seat 1A or the roof?" Martin said.

"He says it's the principle, and also he says 2A smells of Sea World."

Carolyn sighed, pushing off from Douglas' seat. "That's the one he tried on me, too. Privately, I think he's been keeping his aftershave next to the radiator since 1983. I'll handle it, dear."

Arthur folded down the squeaky jumpseat to have a sit. The grey nylon cushion had a crack right down the middle of your bottom, which was sort of embarrassing, like you were sitting on someone else's bottom. Martin had put gaffer tape over it when he was hired, but you could still feel the part, and the broken edges clicked if you moved. Arthur liked running his finger under the seaming of the edge part, by his left thigh; some soft webbing bit hung out and felt like the word "cobwebs" sounded in his mind the first time he heard it.

The jumpseat faced the opposite bulkhead, so he could see right into Douglas' ear, at his whitish sideburn, and study the weave of his navy-blue uniform blazer. He brought his second-best, the one Mum restitched the sleeve rings once, and Arthur could count the yellower, tidy, slightly crooked stitches under Douglas' wrist. Arthur looked away, into the horizon. He could almost, just sort of, if he closed his eyes and tried to smell cigarette smoke in his memory instead of old rubber and coffee, feel his dad's flight jacket under his cheek. GERTI had been Dad's plane once, but Arthur hadn't been allowed on it. Mum had brought him to the airport once, and Dad had picked him up and said ' _See that, my boy? Your dad flew that great bird to Antarctica today_.'

Or something like that. Maybe Arthur didn't remember it right, because people didn't fly to Antarctica in a day and generally didn't go there at all, except for scientists and nature filmists. Dad made his money 'selling things people didn't need.'

He blinked. His stomach hurt. He drank a little of his Coke in his coffee cup.

"How goes the bus?" Douglas said.

"It's fine," Arthur said.

"Is everyone behaving?" Martin asked.

Arthur sat up straighter. "There's a lady in third row, seat C who's sort of drunk, but she's sleepy now. She said she had a chesty and wanted to put a bit of whiskey on it."

Douglas smiled. Martin pressed his lips together. "As long as she's quiet now, I suppose."

"Most people are sleeping but Mum said they'll be wanting breakky soon. Do you chaps want to eat then, too?"

"Generally the _pilots_ eat one at a time, is the way we've been doing it," Douglas said. "Unless you want to switch it up, I suppose we could give flying with our _feet_ a go."

Arthur flushed hot under his ascot. "Right, yeah."

Martin glanced back at him, prompting Douglas to look, too. "Something wrong, Arthur?"

They didn't used to be so one-after-another like, well, a _couple_. Like a mum and dad. "A little," he admitted. "But it's a secret."

They smiled, because they thought Arthur didn't have any good secrets.

"We won't tell," Douglas said.

"Douglas, don't make him."

"It's not about me," Arthur said. He bit his lip. _That_ was a lie. He held onto the seat bottom, wrapping his fingers around the crinkly nylon and metal bottom.

"Arthur," Douglas said, eyebrow lifting.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. He could _hear_ the waggling. Douglas had nicely trimmed brows that sort of peaked just off-center like little pyramids and they _knew things_.

"Douglas, leave him alone. It's none of our--"

"My boyfriend doesn't like me!" The truth, as it often did, spewed out like too much bad rum and poorly chosen late night snackage.

Arthur peeked an eye. The pilots were looking at the instruments. Martin said, at last, "I wasn't aware you had a boyfriend."

"Please don't tell Mum!"

"Well, now, Arthur, that sort of knowledge is very expensive --"

_"Douglas_ ," Martin said. "Leave him alone, can't you see he's upset?"

"It's really important!" Arthur put in.

"If it's that _important_ \--"

"Douglas," Martin said. "I think, as the _pilot of this vessel_ , I'd like to institute a moratorium on _fleecing the stewards_. It's beneath the dignity of our profession."

Arthur wasn't sure what that meant, but it chased off Douglas' fox-happy look. "It's okay, I really don't mind."

"For how long?" Douglas said, ignoring Arthur. "Wait -- if you're telling me I should be _angling for bigger fish_ , then are you offering up an alternative _quid pro quo_? Perhaps a _de-fleecing_ instead?"

Arthur was _really_ lost now, but Martin was fidgeting in his seat, and Douglas' fox look was back. Actually, he looked a bit like he was set out to steal Christmas.

"We'll see," Martin finally said.

Douglas laughed his big chest-laugh. Martin didn't look quite as happy, but maybe a _little_ happy. Arthur sort of understood, or at least, he understood that when you're sleeping with someone, you can make it so there are no losers. He wondered if Martin needed some friendly tips about games like that, and resolved to offer him a few next time Douglas was in the loo. But then he remembered that Martin wasn't really interested in talking to him about personal things anymore, and Arthur thought about leaving them alone.

"So!" Douglas said, glancing at Arthur as if remembering he was still in the flight deck. "Tell me, yon love's fool. Why don't you want Carolyn to know you're seeing someone?" Douglas asked. "I thought mothers liked to know these things." He muttered something that sounded like 'house' and 'to herself' that Arthur didn't understand.

"I -- it doesn't matter." Arthur stood carefully, to not slop his soda. "You wouldn't be interested."

They both protested, which made him feel warm inside.

"You can't wind us up and then leave," Martin said.

"Really, Martin?" Douglas asked. "Are you feeling _wound up_?"

"Douglas, hush. Arthur, tell us why you think your boyfriend doesn't -- is upset with you."

"Obviously he must like you, or you wouldn't be calling him by that title, would you?" Douglas said.

Arthur unfolded the creaky seat again. "It's only his family. He's really great but his parents wouldn't want his to be with someone like me."

There was a silence. Arthur looked up. They were looking at one another in that way grownups do when they don't want the kids to know they're fighting. Martin raised his eyebrows and Douglas cleared his throat.

"Well, Arthur, just because someone's parents don't like your -- your personality or, I don't know, maybe it's your job --"

"No! He's an alpha and I'm a beta and he's supposed to marry a really gorgeous, perfect omega like Skip and have really pretty babies!" Arthur buried his nose in his cup. The bubbles burned his esophagus.

Martin squeaked in astonishment. "A -- a _what_ kind of omega? Th-that you -- I'm _what?_ "

Arthur froze. The silence hung.

Douglas laughed. He howled. He took his hand off the control stick and Martin had to grab it.

"It's not that funny," Martin grumbled.

"Your face!" Douglas said. He thumbed at the corner of his eyes. "Both your faces!"

"I didn't mean it! Not like that!" Arthur said. "Skip is brilliant, obviously. And he looks very pretty being pregnant, because, because all omegas do. And all people are a bit pretty, aren't they? Well, not all people. But Douglas is sort of pretty too, isn't he?"

Douglas stopped laughing. "Can we say _handsome_?"

"But it's okay that I'm pretty?" Martin muttered

"Well, you are," Douglas said. "You're a very lovely omega."

Arthur scrunched his nose, thinking. The words were all jumbly. "No ... handsome is a thing for, like, wooden people who are far away from you. Pretty is people who like you back. People you want to touch and cuddle. Don't you see?"

"Not a bit," Douglas said.

"It's okay, Arthur," Martin said. "I don't mind if you -- whatever you just said, if you think that at me. It's a completely innocent compliment, I'm sure."

"Of course it's innocent, he's a _beta_ ," Douglas said. "More than that, he's _Arthur._ "

Arthur wrapped the webbing bits around his finger.

"So what happened?" Martin said. "Did you quarrel?"

"Not really. . . ." Arthur wriggled. It wasn't very nice of him to think James was _lying_ about the meeting at his father's business. "He's really busy. He's an artist and he's studying and his dad wants him to do things for the family business a lot of the time."

"Sounds very ambitious," Douglas said.

"Sounds like he's pulled in a lot of directions," Martin observed.

"I just miss him, is all. I want to be with him all the time, and he says he does too. But he cancels things often. And I feel like -- like he's a grown up and I'm not."

Douglas reached over and patted his knee. "Well, m'boy, sometimes when people are in two different places, love just isn't enough."

Arthur yanked his leg away. "That's horrible! Love is -- it's the most important thing on earth!"

Douglas chuckled. Martin looked at him with a crooked, odd smile Arthur hadn't ever seen before, except that one time, he remembered later, when they'd gone past a pet shop and watched the kittens in the window.

<|>

The world seemed easier on a handheld screen. Tiny text, everything formatted for drop-down menus. It was a bit like hiding in an aeroplane toilet, everything miniaturized and single-use, disposable and closable.

He'd had another nightmare. This time, he could still feel and smell bits of it. He smelled everything lately, bread and antiseptic and Douglas' aftershave pluming up from his sweater cabinet. He didn't want to be sitting up awake right now, but the world beyond their bed smelled blue. Douglas beside him was snoring orange, cinnamon, warm and chocolaty safe.

_The child molester grooms his or her intended victim for months or years to gain obedience_ , Martin read from the device in his hand.

He couldn't ask the doctor all of his questions with Douglas there, butting in, drawing his own conclusions. He dad hadn't been a molester, Douglas didn't understand.

_The paedophile suffers an inability to connect with adults his or her own age. The paedophile uses control and secrecy as tools to keep his or her victims isolated from those who may help them._

He knew this. He was an omega who lived _in the world_ , of course he knew how pedophilia worked. Why couldn't he stop flicking from one link to the next, one victim's story to another. He didn't feel anything. He watched his right thumb quiver, limned in iridescent pixels, as it tapped links. None of this really mattered. His dad was dead, no one had to know.

His brother would pummel him, omega or not, if he told.

He looked at Douglas' broad, bare back, the broad play of muscle solid against his thigh. Dad had been thick-set, broad shouldered. His hair had been shorter, but Martin had seen it long in photos. He'd been a small man, but when Martin had been a child, Dad had seemed enormous, a fairy tale prince. When Douglas held him, Martin felt protected. Did he feel small? Childish?

Martin moved closer for a better look, shining the light of his phone icy cool over the olive tones of Douglas' stubbly cheek. Middle aged lines on a handsome face; center parted, mostly brown hair; bushy eye brows that he had waxed and thought no one knew. He wasn't thick-set, not really; Dad and Simon were big, barrel-chested men. Douglas was a tall, broad man who'd gone a bit to seed; his height was mostly in his long legs. His hands were large, the fingers something Martin had come to fetishize in a way he had to control at work. Martin had always admired the legs, even before they'd started sleeping together. He'd snuck looks at Douglas' bare feet whenever he could.

Martin touched his rough cheek, and thought of Simon's year without shaving. He spooned behind him, hooking his chin into Douglas' neck, hoping his bony jaw didn't damage him, and draped his arm across his chest. Douglas had tiny man-breasts.

His throat felt tight. Somehow, without realizing it, his old depression had come on. He felt tired, and lonely, and like nothing was right or would be ever. For a terrifying hang in time, he thought he was going to have a fit. But no, he only _hated everything_.

He gave Douglas a shove. Douglas snorted up from sleep.

"What is it? Martin? Jesus, what do you want?"

"I don't know!"

"Then sod the hell off, it's still goddamn night in here." Douglas rolled over, leaving Martin bereft.

Martin poked him in the shoulder. Douglas swatted him, but Martin poked harder.

"Douglas, what are we?"

"One of us going to be a fine paste if he doesn't shut the hell up."

Martin climbed astride his hips, maneuvering the slightly compliant, sleepy man onto his back. He leaned, bracing his palms on Douglas' shoulders. Douglas was falling back to sleep. He pulled hair. Douglas moaned. Martin bounced. Douglas smacked his thigh.

"What do you _want_?"

"What do _you_ want?" Martin said.

"I think I've made that perfectly clear, elf that's bouncing on my _bladder_. Darling, your energy is admirable, but I'm extremely not interested for at least another hour."

"Am I?"

"A mad bouncing elf?" Douglas was awake if he could engage in verbal parry and thrust.

Martin squirmed. "Am I your darling? Or, honey -- am I your boyfriend?"

Douglas peeled his eyes open. "Oh. That."

He sat up, disposing Martin from his seat, and lumbered into the bathroom. Water splashed in the sink. Martin wandered into the kitchen to put on the kettle. Douglas appeared, his fringe held back with the cotton band he used when he 'kept up his complexion' with his Dead Sea salt scrub. Martin handed him his tea. Douglas took it in his sleepy hand, yanking the band off his head. They sat up in bed in the hall light and creeping dawn.

"This is a horrible conversation to have at this hour," Douglas said, sipping carefully. "Why are you worried about this now? I thought we were doing fine."

Martin bit his lip. "I don't know. I can't sleep."

"Did you have another nightmare?"

"I guess."

Douglas cupped his chin, thumb soothing at his jaw. "I'm sorry, my dear. Are you all right?"

Martin shrugged his hand away. "Do you think I'm broken? I've taken care of myself for fifteen years --"

The hand rubbed his shoulder, his neck. Martin shrugged it off.

"I think you're doing what you can with a difficult situation. Like most people do. I think none of what happened to you was your fault, if that's what you're wondering."

Martin's heart jumped. What a thing to say!

"You were a child," Douglas continued. "Children are not sexual creatures. You said yourself that your father was 'icky' for a long time. He sounds like he had some problems controlling himself. I honestly wonder if he was ever in trouble with the law, or at work, and you just didn't hear of it, given your age. You might want to talk to your siblings about that. I wouldn't advise upsetting your mother --"

"Oh, would you," Martin hissed.

Douglas frowned at him over his tea, confused more than offended. "You asked what I thought."

"No, I asked you a very specific question, not for you to take over my entire life!"

"I -- I wasn't, Martin." Douglas set down his tea. "I just -- look, this is difficult for me, too. I'm trying to be sensitive. I admit I've put some thought into how to help you, but I'm not twisting your arm. I do have a few more years of life experience, I thought you might benefit from --"

"From what? You thought I'd just go along with whatever my _alpha_ tells me to do? You can't sniff out a paedo any better than I can."

Douglas sat back against the pillows. Martin watched him, stomach skipping. He didn't want his tea anymore.

"Do you ever," Douglas said, hand waving, "in the middle of a fight. Do you ever feel like you're watching it from the outside?"

"Yes," Martin said. "Quite often. Sometimes, when I say something I _know_ has just made a hash of it, it's like I'm watching the Martin Crieff show on stupid-vision."

A ghost of a smile whispered past Douglas' lips.

"You can't keep doing this." Douglas took Martin's hand and tugged him into his lap. Martin grudgingly allowed himself to be maneuvered between his legs, to be held and to lean sideways against Douglas' chest. When they were settled, he handed Martin his tea; Martin held it to his chest like a warm kitty. It smelled sweet and he watched the milk swirl. The Coriolis effect, the same process that caused jet streams and hurricanes.

"You can't keep picking fights and dragging up alpha oppression every time you get scared," Douglas said.

Martin felt a protest forming in his mind, but he let it die. The arms around him were steady, trustworthy. "I know," he grumbled. "I'm sorry."

"When I used to drink," Douglas rumbled against his whole left side, "I was quite good at picking fights to gain tactical advantage. A fight over a missed message can cover up any number of grievous sins."

"I wouldn't call you much of a fighter," Martin said. "You sort of just -- stand there and watch me get all upset. And then you walk away."

"Yes. Well. You may be aware that alcoholism isn't merely what you put down your throat, but a state of mind, as well. A very poor one, at that -- I was quite good at sliding blame off me like vodka off a duck's bill. Didn't matter who else I slid it onto, or whose trust I utterly discarded."

Martin pet the arms hugging him tight. He didn't know much about Douglas' life before MJN.

"I made some very selfish, very angry choices, all designed to further my cause of being as drunk as possible as often as possible. Oh, I was completely functional, I could show up to work half zombie, but I'd never let my suave veneer slip. Meanwhile my relationships were a cesspool. And I was the one polluting them."

"I'm sure that's not entirely true," Martin said. "It takes two people to make a relationship. But -- Douglas, I understand if you're saying you're afraid of disagreement, but I really hate when you walk away. It makes me feel like I don't matter to you at all."

Martin could feel Douglas adjust behind him, swallowing hard and squeezing Martin's hip. When he spoke, his voice was gruff and tense. "Martin, that couldn't be farther from the truth if the 'truth' was a minor outer planet. If you didn't matter, I'd stick around and shout any number of harsh things because -- you don't get it, do you? You see me as I am now: charming, dashing, magical sky god."

"Let's not get carried away." Martin patted him.

"He's still in there -- sour, angry, alcoholic, thrice divorced, bitter, unemployed, _street kid_. I didn't go to any posh school, you git, you didn't have to in the Seventies. I fancied being a pilot and I had some connections, so I trained with a couple of Navy pilots that I was, well, sleeping with. Plus their friends. Whom I later came to be sleeping with."

Martin snorted. Of course.

"So," Martin said, thinking. "I mean something to you?"

Douglas nudged him. "No, you dolt, it means nothing to me that we're sleeping together, having a baby, and sharing living space for the foreseeable future."

That was nice. For now. "Okay."

"What do you want, a signed confession? A wedding?"

He bit his lip. "No. Of course not."

"Well, good, because another marriage is the last thing I need."

Martin listened to the whole cacophony of tea going down Douglas' gullet. What was it called, the squeezing tubes thing? How the food gets pinched and pushed . . .

"That's fine, I never said I wanted that," Martin said. "We don't need it, anyway."

"I shouldn't think so."

Douglas meant the two adults sitting up in bed; Martin had meant he and his baby.

He leaned against Douglas' chest, closing his eyes, and folded Douglas' arm around him. It was fine. He was here. Of course Douglas had issues and problems and a whole life before Martin came along.

Now that they were up early, with time to spare before work, they could make use of it. Martin initiated, as was the way things got going these days. He did the kissing, the coy groping that heated things up. He had said no to the sex accessories and implements, but Douglas still asked before he took.

Martin wanted him to take.

After, when they were almost ready to leave, Douglas' phone told them they had another counseling appointment when they got back.

"Do you really think it's helping? I never know what to talk about with him," Douglas confessed, locking the door behind them.

Martin shouldered their flight bags. "Actually . . . I think I wanted to talk about the night . . . you know?"

"Been a lot of _those nights_ in my long and checkered history, sweetheart." Douglas unlocked the boot and stowed the bags. They got in and settled their travel mugs.

Martin's fingers tripping over the seatbelt latch distracted his brain. "The night we conceived. It was quite an event, at least to me."

Douglas glanced at him as he backed out of the drive. The seat back strained as he braced his craning neck. Martin remembered watching his dad at just that angle on bitter, rainy mornings when he drove Martin to primary school.

"I suppose. What's got you thinking about it?"

Martin fiddled with the plastic lid on his juice. "It's a nice memory, isn't it? It was for me. Even after . . ."

Douglas patted his knee. "Even after we agreed to be practical. But yes, it's a nice memory for me, too."

Martin smiled, watching Douglas watch the road. With a start, he realized how very easy and comfortable a life like this could be.

<|>

_I want to do very naughty things with_

 

Erase, erase, erase.

_If you come over right now, I'm not wearing any pants. Want to see?_

 

That was silly, James could see that when he came over.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. What did he want? James. Sex. James and sex. He wasn't a little kid and he wasn't just a -- whatever people thought he was. What would Douglas say? Douglas always got what he wanted because he _asked_ _for it._

_I want to have sex with you right now._ \-- Bear

 

No, that was a bit rude. What if he was busy?

_The next time I see you, I want to_

 

Arthur paused. Glanced at his locked door. The house was silent.

_I want to put my tongue all over you and then suck your cock and then I want you to fuck me._

 

His heart pounded. His trousers were getting a bit uncomfortable. This was sort of fun, wasn't it? He read back the words. There was something missing.

_Because I want to show you how much I love you. Please come over tonight. xoxo_ \- Bear

 

He sat nervously in his room, the television a dull sound in the background, and waited for James' reply.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to [follow me on Tumblr](http://aura218.tumblr.com/)?

 

Douglas used to look forward to solo flights.

The open sky, the autopilot, and time with his own thoughts. That ought to be enough for any sophisticated, intelligent man, which Douglas knew himself to be the epitome of culture and sophistication. In his head, he was listening to symphony no. 2, op. 17, 3rd mov., and drumming the piano bits on the control column.

No complications, no pregnant omega to pick at him -- may as well be captain of his own flight deck again, just as God intended.

Martin was behaving strangely. More than the usual pregnant, fussy, prissy-over-every-plate-in-every-packed-box strange. Nervous. Jumpy. Good lord, but the boy had a right to have _issues_ plaguing him lately. Therapist Paul said Martin may suffer flashbacks, fits of anxiety, night terrors, depression, indecision, poor temper, _inappropriate placement of blame_.

Bit of the same old Martin, really.

No, that wasn't fair, Douglas chided himself as he blissfully steered GERTI into a fluffy, happy cloud. The other day, Douglas caught Martin flinging things in the kitchen. Martin blubberingly accused Douglas of _hiding_ the measuring spoons, then promptly collapsed in a chair in a fit of apologies.

It wasn't a four-month-gone pregnant man's fault if his emotions took over his better self and, by strict therapist's orders, Douglas was trying to understand that it was complicated. Past traumas were getting stirred up. Despite Douglas' assumptions, Martin's father hadn't laid a violent hand on him but to Martin, that meant his strange and sexualized childhood was less than a crime; but by description and Martin's recent behavior variations, that made his experiences all the more insidious.

How do you handle someone who's been carrying that all that up in their head? For weeks, Douglas didn't want to touch him. He kept to his own side of the bed, writhing over remembered guilt at how selfishly he'd pressed Martin into playing sex games, for God's sake. How callus, how _twisted_. He'd recognized that Martin had felt uncomfortable, Douglas had just thought he was repressed. He had fancied himself some sexual hero who could stick a crowbar in Martin's ordered little brain.

Douglas shook his head. This kind of thinking would get him nowhere.

Long, lonely flights weren't his friend these days. No word games. No flirting. No sneaking into Martin's hotel room, no running his toe up the back of Martin's calf over breakfast, watching the blush rise in his cheeks as he reminded Martin of the things they did the night before and would be doing after they got home.

God, he was bored.

Time to play.

He flicked the intercom switch. "Carolyn? I can't help but notice the utter lack of caffeinated beverages arriving at the preferred intervals."

After a slightly longer interval than one could consider 'prompt,' the intercom cracked to life.

"Always a pleasure to be serving you, Douglas." A chill like the touch of the Grim Reaper's bony forefinger went down Douglas' spine.

When Carolyn appeared carrying his coffee mug, he sniffed it suspiciously for the tell-tale _eau de_ boiled engine scrapings.

"If I were in a mood to poison you," she said, "do you think I'd do it when my life was quite literally held in your grubby little paws?"

Douglas tasted the coffee. "I wouldn't put it past you to secretly obtain flight certification, just to cover all your bases."

"As if I need it." She sat on the arm of Martin's empty chair.

"How's Japan's best and brightest?" Douglas asked.

"Graduated from university, drunk, and finally asleep, thank God," she said. "They require more work than Arthur's eighth birthday party -- the last sleepover he was permitted until his dad resodded the squash pitch."

Douglas made droll noises of sympathy over his quantifiably potable coffee.

Carolyn picked at a spot on her skirt in irritation. "Heavens to Luke, whatever happened to respecting one's elders, letting her have a sit and a cup of tea?"

"It is your job, is it not?"

Her eyes narrowed like a wild cat sighting a sort of prey who was more nuisance than nutrition. "They don't know that, I'm just the little old _baachan_ who told them to stop singing and go to sleep."

"Did you manage to settle their ebullience?"

"After I said it in the Japanese dialect of the 'pushy granny', yes. I adore elderly Japanese ladies and their polite immovable force. The lot of them, collectively, utterly bunk an entire sexist and limiting culture."

Douglas waved a hand, not about to go down that road again. Yes, yes, the well-preserved 90-year-old female omega in Tokyo who hip-checked him on the subway was actualizing her oppression, and as a fifty-three, white, alpha male he wasn't to criticize her methods, or whatever.

"Now," she said, sinking properly into the pilot's chair, "I have used my quota Japanese and have earned my quiet sit and it's not going to be in that horrible jump-seat. You're not to tell on me."

"He'll know," Douglas said. "Martin has a psychic bond with the flight deck. I've seen him whispering things to his favorite section of the instrument panel when he thinks I'm not listening."

Carolyn curled up in Martin's low, lopsided chair crossed her legs. "As long as she stays aloft. So tell me, how is our Martin getting on?"

Douglas eyebrowed her. Carolyn never asked a simple question. "Oh, you know. Burgeoning every day. They're scanning him today to see what's growing in there."

"I hated all those pokings and proddings," Carolyn said. "Terribly invasive. Although I hear they're a bit softer touch with the omega mums these days."

Douglas stared at the wobbling altimeter, thinking. "Yes," he said. "One hopes."

<|>

Another month, another doctor's appointment. If Martin was going to be alone in an enormous university hospital complex, he was glad to have another omega, a mum, the huge and hulking presence of Blaise beside him.

"Thank you again for asking your doctor to fit me in," Martin said.

Blaise waved a broad, soft hand. His youngest son Phillip dozed in a snuggle sack strapped to his front. "Don't look so terrified, Martin, dear. You'll get used to doctors politely asking after what you put in and poo out long before this is over."

Martin decided to pretend he hadn't heard that. Instead, he returned to the thick pad of forms they'd given him upon check-in. The room smelled heavily of bleach and omega hormones; children daubed the carpet and furniture. A stupid-looking child was screeching over a toy on the floor, and its mother didn't even notice or care -- what was wrong with people these days? The noise in the place was making him jittery and ill. Was a tannoy really necessary?

"I'm not really, um--"

Blaise lifted his shirt and pulled it over Phillip's head. For a horrified second, Martin thought he was suffocating his child. Then the sucking noises started, and Martin turned away, blushing so hard his ears thrummed.

"Bit -- crowded, isn't it?"

Blaise glanced about. "At least it's quiet today."

Martin tried to ignore it all as he filled the little boxes. When he was done repeating that he wasn't being abused and didn't have HIV or a drug addiction, he crossed the room to hand off the forms.

He was clearly at the wrong office. This was the clinic for -- for, well, of course he was an omega, and this was an omega office, but wasn't there another type of place for omegas who had, like, _normal lives_? Did these people's alphas even allow them outside the homes aside from doctor-school-shops? Martin knew it was a man's dress if a man chose to wear it and omega visibility and all that, but dear _god_ have a little _dignity_ , no wonder no one wanted to employ people who looked like _that._

He sat carefully on the edge of his seat, relieved that Phillip was through with his snack so that Martin could continue being friends with Blaise. He wondered about Phillip's gender, and what Blaise was teaching him. What Martin would teach his little girl, and what she would pick up if she was an alpha? God, girls were so much easier these days, no matter their gender.

"Oh." Blaise was reading the intake form the nurse had given Martin. "You have Dr. House."

"You said he was a good doctor."

Blaise nodded, expression nondescript. "House is my OB's assistant. He's an extremely good doctor, you're really lucky to get him -- if they're giving you a clinic doctor, I mean. They say he'll do absolutely anything to advocate for his patient. He doesn't miss a thing."

Blaise sounded suspiciously comforting.

"Why are you working so hard to point out his good points?"

"Well . . . you'll see."

Martin chewed on his lip, contemplating Blaise's motherly tone as the nurse took his vitals and led him to an empty exam room.

As Martin sat, naked from the waist down, bored and irritated and shivering under the thin, paper sheet, someone fetched him a cup of weak but comforting tea. He sniffed the bitter-honey smell, watching an errant tea leaf spin, and when the door popped open, nearly spilt it on himself. He hadn't even heard his chart scrape out of the plastic pocket beside the door. The doctor who thumped inside had a sucker tucked into one cheek, was wearing an atrocious, crumpled t-shirt and bed hair, and was clearly an alpha. He smelled of gin and hormones. Martin involuntarily clenched his knees together on the cracked rubber table.

"Hi," the doctor snapped in an American accent. He deftly whipped his cane handle around, snagged the rolling stool, and pulled it across the room.

"Hello." Martin took in the doctor's beat-up sand shoes, general air of impatience.

The doctor stared at his chart. "All right, then -- you are. Martin . . . Grief."

"Crieff."

"Doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

"Not me. You're all grief on the inside. This isn't my usual gig, I'm sure you understand. But _some administrators_ believe that --"

"I'm sure the hierarchy of your hospital is none of my concern," Martin spat. "I would appreciate a _calm_ , professional decorum in the examination room."

The doctor glanced at him over his chart. His eyes were bright, piercing blue under clenched-caterpillar brows.

"All right," the doctor said. "I'm Doctor House. I've been assigned to you, Mr. --"

" _Captain._ "

"Eh?"

"I am an _airline_ pilot and you will address me as _Captain_ Martin Crieff, as that is my correct title. Yours is 'Doctor', allegedly, and mine is Captain."

The doctor arched an eyebrow and drew the sucker from his mouth. It was a lurid red and left a drop of sugared dye on his upper lip. Martin chose to ignore it.

"All right, then, _Captain_. But while we're naming names, you're the pregnoid, and I'm the _bored_ certified diagnostician who's been ordered to scan your fetus for abnormalities."

"Correct."

"None of which can be detected at the early second trimester stage, making this all a theater of paranoia borne of your over-reactive nanny state."

Martin bristled. "I'd rather be cautious than careless, thank you. I was told you felt the same."

"I don't know who would have given you that idea."

The sucker was tucked back into cheek, and Dr. House waited for Martin too make himself comfortable, prone on the cold, crackly table. While Martin counted cracks in the ceiling, the doctor went silent, scanning his stomach efficiently and gently.

"Is it . . . working?" Martin said.

The doctor ignored him.

Martin scowled. Perhaps irritated with him? the doctor dug the transducer into his flesh. Martin winced.

"Sorry," the doctor said, voice grown neutral as he concentrated on the fuzzy scan results.

Martin looked at the ceiling. "It's okay."

He felt the doctor looking at him.

"Did something hurt?" Dr. House said.

"No, not really."

The doctor sighed impatiently. "Look at me."

Martin did. Annoyance was writ clear on the man's face. He was attractive, and he smelled nice. Close to Douglas' age, and somehow familiar in a near-visceral, long-forgotten way. Martin blinked, breaking the gaze.

"I'm _not an alpha_ ," the doctor said. "If something hurts, that's important. Tell me."

Martin shook his head. "You just dug the wand into my hip, all right? Is that important?"

Much to Martin's annoyance, the doctor ran over the spot again, this time more gently. He hrmm'd.

"No, it's not important."

Martin almost pointed out that he was _right_ , but decided it didn't matter.

"What is important," the doctor was looking at Martin, "is your freckles."

Martin touched his cheek, as if the old spots had grown something weird. "My freckles? I know they're ridiculous, but I've always had them."

The doctor was writing something illegible on a slip of carbonated paper. Reading upside-down, Martin realized he was ordering labs. Wonderful, more time taken off, more blood drawn.

"Is this really necessary?" Martin said. "I'm ginger, of course I have freckles. And I'm pregnant, for god's sake, the books say I'm supposed to come out in all sorts of skin things."

Dr. House dropped the paper onto Martin's bare chest. The edges stuck in the transducer gel like homework dropped into breakfast food. "Take that with you when you go, preferably A.S.A.P."

He said 'preferably' with the accent on the wrong syllable. Martin was deciphering the sentence as the doctor limped on his cane out the door.

"Wait -- what's wrong with my freckles? My partner likes them!"

"You're an adorable dewdrop," the doctor said. "But your hormones aren't. Get the labs."

And the door hissed closed in the empty space where the doctor had been.

<|>

 "Oh, I don't know," Douglas said as he swirled the last of his coffee in the bottom of the white mug. "I realize he puts off what we at MJN lovingly refer to as 'an air of obsessive-compulsive geekery', but he does relax at home to a charming degree. He's intelligent, certainly. Cute."

"Martin? Is cute?"

Douglas glanced over at his employer lounging like a cat in said pilot's seat, sipping a tea, sensible pumps discarded for the floor.

"I suppose _cute_ isn't on one's romantic radar when one looks for the seen-it-all sky pirate type."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Of course not. And I didn't see you making time with that puffed-out old smarmpot from Cal Air in the captain's lounge in Vienna last week."

"Certainly not." Carolyn flipped through Martin's battered checklists booklet.

"Because a clever, capable, independent businesswoman like yourself easily walked right into the pilot's lounge on your own credentials."

"By my wit and forbearance, any time I choose."

"Right."

Carolyn's mouth did an unpleasant little curl. Right, well . . . his point was made, and the last thing he needed at this juncture was for Carolyn to leap into the arms of said oily bastard he saw chatting her up. Not as if Shipwright's and GERTI's schedules were likely to match up again.

"Continuing from your original query," Douglas said, "if one appreciates a certain, oh, I don't know, _youthful effulgence_ , then yes, Martin Crieff is, God save us all, _cute_. Granted, not when he's screeching down the intercom to get my fat arse out of the cargo hold and onto the flight deck when I'm in the middle of an extremely _sensitive_ meet-and-greet with a few old family friends from Chicago."

"I knew it! Never again shall you see that fair cesspool, my friend!"

As was the intention of that not-so-accidental city name-drop.

"But I fancy myself a good judge of character, or else I wouldn't have taken up with the _lad_ to begin with."

Carolyn discarded the booklet beside the control column with a shocking _thwap_. "Is that what you're calling it?"

Was he in trouble now? "Is that what _you're_ calling it? I think that's rather unfair."

"I don't call it anything," Carolyn said. "Only last time I checked, you couldn't pass an hour together without trying to top one another."

Douglas tilted his head at her. "I assume you mean verbal sparring. However, if you're digging for details --"

"Not in the least." She looked far more comfortable than she ought. "Although I suppose there is that, at least in my experience."

Grey clouds covered the sun, and the cabin grew chill. Douglas became aware of tense muscles at the base of his spine. He shifted, wishing he could stand up and stretch, get a coffee or something; he used to be able to fly long hauls alone with no problem, but he'd grown soft, used to having Martin there on even these puddle-jumper stints.

"I'm not sure that Martin and I fall within the bounds of yours or anyone else's experience," Douglas said. "It's all quite unusual territory."

"Fancy yourselves unique?"

Douglas bit his lip. For all her world-weariness, Carolyn was, at her core, rather traditional. "Carolyn, I am, in case you noticed, flying a _plane_. Is there a point to this line of interrogation?"

Carolyn appeared to be matching up Martin's side of the control panel with one of Martin's personal, hand-drawn check-lists. Douglas wasn't sure which one, as they never needed to use it, but he'd been assured that its existence was imperative (and not to be used for a coaster, paper aeroplane, or balled-up Arthur-attention-grabber).

"This is not an interrogation, it is a _review_. When I get around to interrogating you, you will know."

"Noted."

Carolyn's basilisk eyes bored into Douglas' head. "Douglas. If you make a hash of this, it will affect my business. I will simply not permit that."

"There's no hash being made. Martin and I understand each other completely. This is a -- a financial agreement. We're two company owners who've created a product and the most responsible thing is to stay in business together. It's simple mathematics."

Carolyn stared.

Douglas flipped the fuel gauge, watching the meter balance. "It's what he wants."

"What do you want?"

Douglas downed the last of his coffee. Her coffee, honestly; she made it. "I would like. To see you attempt to fly a plane."

Carolyn laughed. "This is a true low, Douglas, trying to terrifying me into forgetting our conversation?"

"Carolyn, I am about to take my hands off this control column. One of us had better take hold of it, and I dearly hope it will be you."

Carolyn squawked -- not knowing, of course, that a perfectly level flying plane didn't need to be steered. Her hands reflexively fell on the U-shape steering grips as naturally as she'd flown a hundred flights.

"Douglas, stop this right now."

He smiled at her. "You're flying the plane, Carolyn."

"No I am not!"

He flipped the fuel gauge, making the center of the plane shudder. Carolyn betrayed no tremor of emotion, save a slight whitening of her fingertips.

"What did I just do?" he asked.

"You balanced the fuel gauge." Her voice remained steady, even as her wide eyes flicked over the controls.

"Are you going to crash us?"

"Not unless I were to take a foolish notion and shove this thing down, no." Carolyn one was tiny bundle of alert muscle, but Douglas knew the difference between fright and pure exhilaration.

"Hence, _you are flying the plane._ "

Carolyn scoffed. "Don't be absurd. There's more to being a pilot than clutching a phallic object tucked between your legs."

"Agreed. There's course corrections, checking the weather --"

"Composing dirty sonnets, swilling coffee, and swindling expensive electronics off my son, I know that. But what do you two do all flight when we're telling the passengers you're terribly busy and can't give tours of the cockpit?"

"Compose dirty sonnets, swill coffee --"

"Yes, yes."

Carolyn sat up straighter in Martin's chair, putting her stocking feet on the floor. He watched her glance at the pedals by her feet, check the altimeters, glance at the standby compass.

"All ship-shape, number one?" he said.

Carolyn nodded. "Yes. I believe so." She glanced at him out of the side of her eye, then looked at the breaking clouds in the narrow windscreen above the dashboard.

Douglas had never noticed that Carolyn pretended to be right, even when she wasn't sure. Of course she did, what choice did she have?

"You're doing very well," he said. "I may even let you land."

"Don't you dare," she hissed.

"Nonsense. You're doing better than Martin did on his first flight."

Carolyn chuckled in that throaty, Barbara Stanwyck-y tone she had that reminded Douglas that some alphas -- some pilots -- must, and do, find her quite attractive, if they appreciated an omega with claws.

"You mean the trip he took with the landing equipment dangling out the bottom of GERTI's belly like a man going about with his flies open?"

"Evocatively put."

Douglas sat back and took a biscuit from the tray balanced on the landing panel. He made a mental note to call ATC in fifteen minutes and kick Carolyn out of the flight deck for landing, which she probably expected. He wondered if he ought to fly into that storm cloud and see if she knew how to balance the flaps for an updraft. Probably did.

"Don't tell Martin," Carolyn said, "but I think this is almost fun."

"I wouldn't dream of letting it slip that you had fun."

<|>

Martin left the exam room, trying to navigate the labyrinthine corridors and simultaneously decipher the rude doctor's handwriting. Freckles meant nothing to him, but the word 'hormones' stuck in his chest. No pregnant omega wanted to hear that something wasn't developing right _hormonally_. People asked which partner contributed to the problem; the gender expression gossip about a newborn infant persisted well past the child's adolescence. It was all ridiculous and no one's business, yet everyone talked about _hormonal problems_ like it was dinner conversation.

Before Martin could work himself into a proper flail, Blaise was filling up the hall, casting a shadow, touching Martin's elbow -- generally radiating competence. Martin stepped into his sphere of confidence.

"How'd it go, then?" Blaise said.

"He was a terribly rude alpha who ground the transducer into my pelvis to speed up the test for his own convenience. Then he insulted my freckles and told me they're a disease. I'm supposed to go to a lab for them, or something." Martin handed over the paper.

Blaise frowned over the lab order as he led Martin toward the front entrance. "Dr. House didn't tell you why he was ordering the tests?"

"He barely spoke a word that wasn't a personal insult. The man should be fired, with actual fire."

Blaise shrugged. "Well, the clinic doctors are all stretched pretty thin, but he should have told you. Maybe it's nothing to worry about unless the tests come back with a particular result."

Martin knew when he was being comforted. He wasn't a _child_ , he deserved to know, dammit! He turned on his heel, peeling away from Blaise with a muttered 'Thanks.' He _would_ find this Dr. House and demand an explanation!

Charging down the hall, ignoring Blaise's curious call, Martin turned a corner -- and walked into a solid, immovable force. He stumbled, his water bottle and paper falling, along with a noisy lot of other things.

"Hoy!" said the tiny wall who'd leapt into his path. "Tryin' to cause me a miscarriage?"

"I'm sorry! Let me, please." Martin knelt to help the small, neon-haired omega to pick up her bag, phone, a sheaf of papers. Somewhere in there was his important thingy, and he tried to sort it out as his clumsy fingers tried to shove the girl's stuff into her bag. Why did tiny women carry such big, open handbags?

"Martin Crieff?" She held his lab order in the air, out of his reach.

Martin shoved a handful of lip glossies into her bag, wishing he didn't have to touch strange things.

"Yes, thank you. Terribly sorry, really. I just, um, was on my way for an important discussion with my doctor. So sorry to not see you there."

"You're Martin Crieff?" She looked the type to pierce the baby's nose with a safety pin and name it something socially relevant and deeply irritating. Her eyes were lined in black out to her ears and smears of pinky-purple smudged to her eyebrows. Half one side of her head was shaved.

"Yes, that's mine, thank you." Martin stood. Let the little punk pick up the rest of her crap on her own.

Except the kid wasn't moving. She stuck out a hand and pronounced herself, "Tiffany Cosas. My dad knows you. We're supposed to watch each other's babies soon."

"Oh, God," Martin said. "I mean! Hello. Yes, pleased to meet you, Captain Martin Crieff."

He felt Blaise hovering behind him.

"So, yah." Tiffany's mouth revealed a chartreuse wad of gum when she talked. Martin despised children who chewed gum in public, especially when they stuck it all over places other people had to touch, as they inevitably did. "When I pop out my kid, we should, like, talk I guess? You want my mobile?"

"I have my own, thanks." Martin took a step back.

"My mobile _number._ Just, let me see yours, yeah?"

Martin handed his phone to the horrible, pushy child-mum. He had to show her how to slide out the keyboard, which he'd thought rather swish when he'd bought the thing. Tiffany's looked like a prop from an overly budgeted American sci-fi film. He waited while Tiffany programmed her number, fumbling with the unfamiliar menu options and refusing his help.

"I got it," she said. "I had one of these when I was, like, nine. I'll text you -- do you have texting?"

" _Yes_ ," he said. "But it's a limited plan, so I'd prefer if you kept them under a hundred and sixty characters --"

"Yeah, I'll try," she said. "Later."

She stalked off, trainers that laced to her knees squeaking on the lino. Martin blinked at her phone entry; there were characters on either side of her name he didn't know his phone was capable of producing.

"Isn't she precious," Blaise drolled.

Martin folded his lab page neatly, sliding it into his jacket pocket. "We get a lot of those at MJN for school leaving dos; her father is obscenely wealthy. I'm sure she'll grow up eventually."

Blaise patted Phillip's back as the child began to fuss. "Yeah, maybe. Just saying -- watch your wallet with that one."

Martin laughed. "Don't you think it should be the other way 'round? The contents of my wallet wouldn't get her into the door of her favorite club."

Blaise shook his head. "I don't know, I just don't like her."

Martin scrolled to Carolyn's number to text her the good news. "She needs a babysitter, clearly. Point taken, ta."

"Yup. Ready to jet?"

Martin nodded. "Completely ready. Er, thank you, of course, for finding me a better doctor, but . . ." A long wail from an exam room seemed to crackle the paint.

Blaise smiled, patting his shoulder. "No one's a baby person until they have to be, kiddo. Let's get you to that pub lunch I promised you."

"Oh, thank you," Martin sighed.

His phone pinged the whole walk to the pub, Carolyn excitedly planning -- plotting -- Martin's next move re: Operation BabyFarm.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Is that what you'd like to talk about today?" Paul said. "The night Martin got pregnant?"_

In Arthur's short life, Carolyn had learned to be wary when he was quietly keeping his happiness to himself. Certainly, it was pleasant to know what one's thirty-something son who lived at home was up to -- at least so she knew where the trust fund was going. But a quiet Arthur, smiling at his phone, curled up in the crew deck like he used to covetously protect his portable Game-thingy, unnerved his old mum in some new way. She shoved the cart into its locks by the micro and poured herself a tea.

"Arthur, have the passengers been told they're free to not move about the cabin?"

No answer.

"That was a joke, dear. Of course I'd be pleased as pie if we put them in stasis for the duration, but . . ."

Arthur giggled at his phone. Well, this wasn't any fun. She leaned a hip against the seat beside him, watching his delight through his floppy fringe.

"Arthur," she said.

He looked up. "Sorry, Mum!"

"Texting isn't permitted in the air, dear."

"It's chatting! Over the wifi."

"Isn't that special. Who has captured your attention away from your usually ever so diverting job duties?"

"I'm sorry!" He started to stand, but Carolyn didn't budge, so Arthur was forced to sit and be scrutinized. "It's -- a person."

"Wonderful. For a minute, I thought Snoopadoop's paws had evolved typing fingers."

The tip of Arthur's tongue curled out, reaching his top lip as he scrutinized the ceiling. "I don't think she has done. Only, if she had, I think that would only be good for changing lightbulbs."

Literal child. "Arthur, I have three minutes before a shiver of corporate lawyers sobers up, so please get to the point."

"I haven't got a point!" His phone dinged. Arthur clutched it to his chest.

Carolyn turned to the cart to pour an orange juice and seltzer for Arthur. She settled in the seat across from him, as if they were two co-workers on break. Which they were, even if she had her eye on the microwave clock.

"Arthur, I can tell you're keeping secrets. For weeks, it's been the back of your head whenever I enter a room you happen to occupy."

Arthur worried at the embossed airplane wings on his hat in his lap. "Promise not to get mad?"

She sighed. "Arthur, dogs go mad, mums feel a certain level of frustration at silly sons who can't just spit it out."

"Right. Sorry." His phone dinged again. Arthur visibly fought the impulse to look.

"Is it your dad?"

"No-oo."

"Then it's another beta. I certainly don't care if you've found yourself another Fitsy or -- "

"How did you know about him?"

"Him?" she echoed.

"He's called James."

Carolyn felt her heart do a worrisome sort of flutter.  She thought he wasn't doing that anymore. It was fine, she was hardly prejudiced against male betas, hadn't Arthur turned out just fine? More or less?

"Well, women aren't all they're cracked up to be," she admitted. "I just thought you'd find yourself someone who'd take care of you."

Arthur's head cocked to one side. "He does. I do, too. We take care of each other."

Carolyn resisted giving advice. Arthur wasn't a boy anymore.

"I'm sure he does, dear. When will I get to meet him?"

"Ahhhh -- soon? Very soon. He's busy. Right now." Arthur flashed that grin she'd taught him to use on passengers who asked too many questions.

She brushed that disobedient fringe back from his eyes, thinking.

When Arthur was about nineteen, he'd hung on to university for a second year only because Gordon had had a few noisy meetings with the vice chancellor. Arthur's main motivation to stick it out another year had been a girl in his hall. Thick as bricks, tall, long hair, smelled like her omega roommate, called some  fluffy animal nickname. She was perfect, she treated Arthur like a pet, and Arthur had pretended he didn't know her when Carolyn came to visit. It was only through Gordon, who boasted later that Arthur 'was on his way to finding himself an omega, you'll see' that she wormed out the truth.

Arthur liked helping people. He was predictably drawn in by women (and men) who needed a certain level of emotional validation. He didn't mind, or didn't notice, when his helping-people schtick went further than what Carolyn considered acceptable for a balanced relationship.

But he must notice, even now, or else he wouldn't hide from his mum the relationships he didn't think she'd approve of, would he?

"You'll let me know when he can _clear his schedule_ , then?" she said.

"Right-o!"

It was easy to find something to do on GERTI, and she magnanimously left Arthur to text.

<|>

At the front of the plane, the breeders were once again engaged in their little soap opera. Carolyn staked out the galley, gathering intel for financial planning purposes.

So Martin wasn't keen on his new doctor. Well, she sure as hell wasn't paying for some private OB and a birthing suite. She had three employees and it was her legal right to make the government put up the sprog. Douglas was murmuring questions and then her blood ran cold at 'hormone test.' Martin's bump was hardly pushing at his uniform jacket, they shouldn't be sticking needles in him now.

Carolyn snatched the mugs out of the micro and swept into the flight deck.

"Hello, drivers. Coffee for you, Douglas, and herbal delights for our little mummy to be."

"Thank you, Carolyn," Martin said. Douglas glanced at him, irritated.

"Happy to help, Martin. How's your tummy?"

"Fine, thank you. I'm not actually completely helpless, you know."

"Of course you're not." Carolyn stood between their chairs, draping one arm across Martin's seatback.

"The captain is a bit stressed," Douglas said.

" _The captain_ can speak for himself," Martin said. "And it's perfectly normal to be a bit irritated at feeling like a pin cushion. I've seen three horrible doctors this month! Except for Paul, of course."

" _Martin_ ," Douglas snapped.

It took Carolyn approximately two tenths of a second to deduce what variety of doctor an overly formal, fussy little thing like Martin would refer to by the given name.

"I see," she said. "Well. If _Paul_ is helping you two learn to get along --"

"We're not going to quit your squirrelly, half-legit company, Carolyn, so you can stop nosing about," Douglas said. "And that's all you need to know."

She came in here to help!

" _Thank. you._ " Carolyn turned on her heel and left them to their foolish spat.

She gave the flight deck door an extra hard slam, knowing full well she was more irritated with herself for getting _personal_ with the help.

<|>

On a new, bright morning, Martin let Douglas take his hand as their heels ground in the grit on the slate steps in front of Doctor Paul's office. An unseasonably cool breeze blew straight through the weave of Martin's rugby shirt, despite the diamond-clear sky. Douglas jostled his jacket over his arm as he opened the office door. The small waiting vestibule was empty, the quiet murmur of Omega Hour on Radio 4 murmuring from the sleek, black radio. Inside the treatment room, Paul's confident tenor said declarative things over two watery, soprano voices.

"Ready for this?" Martin said in the mood-lit, wood-and-leather room.

Douglas picked a magazine at random and dropped into a hard, straight-backed antique chair that faced the door. "If you are."

To his relief, Martin would be doing the hard work in therapy again. Douglas folded his magazine and put an arm around Martin's hip.

Martin, for his part, rested his hand on his slightly rounded stomach and leaned against Douglas. He thought Douglas was going to feign amnesia over what he wanted to talk about today, but when Martin brought up the long ago night in the car, Douglas' calm assurance gave Martin a warm glow: Douglas was finally, finally respecting that Martin's opinions and feelings were important.

"It'll be fine," Douglas said. Martin liked Paul's little witticisms, so he added, "Feelings are facts, right?"

Finally, they were let into the office. The room was familiar now, the leather couch that Douglas preferred comfortable rather than cloying. Martin sat beside him, leaning in when Douglas took his hand.

"That's the first time you two have been on the same page," Paul said. "How are things?"

Martin felt them looking at him, waiting to get on with it. He took a breath.

"Um - well, we've mostly chosen a new flat? Or, we're, um, well, we have to have it inspected, but it's . . ." Martin didn't know how to say that this was good, comforting, and right, without sounding like a nesting omega.

"It's a two bedroom, semi-attached, lovely kitchen, and has a back garden." Douglas said like a mature adult. "Good schools nearby and a little play park at the end of the road. New fixtures."

"I'm sure that's one less worry on your plates," Paul said.

"I should say so," Douglas said.

"I've never paid a mortgage on anything," Martin mumbled.

"What was that?" Paul said.

"Martin, you're raising my child, I don't expect you to pay fifty-fifty on everything," Douglas said.

"Have you been concerned about money, Martin?"

Martin snickered. "No more than usual. No, it's fine. We had a chat. I have been _informed_ ," he side-eyed Douglas, "that anything I can contribute will be _appreciated_."

"You don't sound happy about that."

"I'm happy!" Martin said. "Delighted."

"You always knew I'd be taking care of you," Douglas said, clearly tired of repeating this topic. "That's _why_ we decided to share a space. That's the whole point of it."

"I know, okay? I'm fine with it. It's just hard for me to know I'll be dependent on someone for the next few decades."

Douglas and Paul shared a conference of looks.

"Shall we move on?" Paul said.

"Yes," Douglas said. "Martin?"

"You can start," Martin said.

Douglas frowned. "It's your story."

"You said it's both ours!" Martin seethed. He wasn't going to do this alone.

"Martin, are you asking for some support about a particular topic?" Paul prodded.

"He _was_ there," Martin said. "I think -- I think that I shouldn't be the only one who people ask about the night I conceived. We did. That."

"Who's asking you things?" Douglas said.

"People do," Martin said. "Do you think anyone believes that people actually get pregnant by accident anymore?  Only if you're a complete idiot. I'm tired of people thinking I was some naive little ninny who didn't realize he was in heat, or something."

Douglas smiled. "You were rather charming, actually. Very needy. It made you hard to resist."

Martin crossed his legs, nudging Douglas' shoulder. "If you think you were some great hero, that's not at all how I remember your demeanor."

"Is that what you'd like to talk about today?" Paul said. "The night Martin got pregnant?"

Carefully, Martin reached across their laps. Douglas took his smaller hand in his, turning it over and tracing the palm in utterly distracting ways.

"Yes," Douglas said. "We would."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to [follow me on Tumblr](http://fanficbyaura218.tumblr.com/)?

It had been a long haul -- America, where birth control was illegal and then an endless stretch to a faded Balkin state where the room smelled of stale paint and the blankets were stiff as tent canvas.

Douglas' weight pressed Martin's prickly flesh into the rough sheets as Martin writhed up into his solid, sweaty chest, grinding his hips, teasing Douglas' nipples and giving a squeeze of pectoral. Douglas tossed his head back, thrusting into the circle of Martin's hand. He was almost there.

Martin's legs were wrapped around his waist and he had one hand gripping Douglas' knot, the other working the end of Douglas' cock. The gorgeous smells between them -- finest wine couldn't compare. Douglas could bury his face between Martin's legs and stay there for hours, days.

The heat had come on slowly, inevitably, like waking up hung. They'd spent the day locked together in the flight deck, sealed the cracks under the door, avoided the passengers. All day, Martin's replies to the word games grew more lascivious; Douglas kept pressing upon him cups of tea.

"Stop worrying," Douglas said as they stumbled into their hotel room. "No one ever died from lack of penetration. I'll just stay with you, it'll help take the edge off."

"With you, I always worry," Martin said, even as he unbuttoned before Douglas unlocked their door.

It felt wrong, a bit embarrassingly desperate, but that didn't stop Martin from pulling Douglas on top of him as the hormones clouded out all sensible thought.

Everything was wet. Their kisses tasted of salt and they turned off the lights to blot out the cracked, blue-white plaster walls. In the glow of the sodium streetlight, and the criss-cross of the passing lorry headlamps, they filled the room with their need.

Douglas clenched his hand over Martin's as it squeezed gratification from the knot at the base of his pleasure. He groaned, moaning into Martin's throat. "That feels amazing." He kept looking at it, down between their bodies -- Martin's smaller, long-fingered hand wrapped around the dusky plum sphere. Martin squeezed gently. Douglas barked a half-laugh, half-gasp of pleasure.

"Harder," Douglas said. "You're so -- it's been _years_."

Martin squeezed, and on a wild whim, he rolled the foreskin over the blood-hot knot. Douglas nearly purred and thrust their groins together. Martin had never touched one before. Martin pressed their cocks together, reaching down to form a circle with his hand, but Douglas swatted him away.

"Let me. You, lift --"

He raised Martin's knees to his ears, wrapping his legs around his waist, opening him up. A rush of sweet aroma swelled up between them. Their lips slid awkwardly together in a messy kiss.

"Get your fingers inside -- can you reach?"

Obediently, Martin wormed his arm down past their damp bellies and squirmed his fingertips into his slick and gaping vestibule. He moaned, thrusting his hips, using Douglas' shoulder as leverage. The expression he caught was _covetous_. Douglas' probing fingers followed, plunging in beside Martin's, adding the girth he ached for.

"Good?"

"Oh, yes," Martin said.

Douglas pulled them out and slicked their cocks with the fluid so he could thrust their cocks together. Martin rose up to meet him, pivoting on his elbow as he kept his fingers working away at his G-spot. Douglas held his ankle up high, displaying Martin, laying him out like a butterfly.

"Come on," Douglas said. "Get yourself off. Let me hear you."

<|>

"I don't remember being that verbal," Douglas said.

"You always are." Martin tried not to roll his eyes.

Douglas gestured at Martin, nodding to Paul. "He makes his needs known too, you know. He does have his pushy omega side."

"I think I can keep myself a little more in control than some people."

Paul put his hands up. "It sounds like you were very connected. How long had you been together?"

"About an hour," Douglas said. "Oh! I don't know, a few months? It's hard to remember."

"The first time we slept together was the Summer Equinox. I thought it was rather strange, given the mythic implications."

"You rather hoped I'd run you up the old May pole?" Douglas smirked at him.

Martin flushed to the ears and touched his stomach.

"So," Douglas said. "As you can imagine, I was in complete control of the situation . . ."

<|>

Douglas' hand formed a tight channel around their joined cocks and Martin's hand squeezed his knot. Douglas was gasping for air, light-headed, feeling like he was running a marathon. He pressed his face into Martin's throat, pressing open-mouth kissing into his skin, as if to drink him whole.

"I love -- this,' he said.

"Fuck me," Martin said. "Please -- I want --"

The hot, wet mouth on his neck pinched sharp. Martin felt the moment when inhibition snapped. Astonished, he felt as if he were lost at sea, letting Douglas steer him.

<|>

"Really?" Douglas said. "I was your _captain of love_?"

"That's horrible, let me tell the story."

<|>

Martin crashed down from orgasm, begging to be fucked. Douglas arrived a second later, grunting into Martin's neck. The word 'mine' may have been uttered. Douglas hid his face, hot breath against Martin's throat, wrapped up in his lover's legs. He stroked those thighs and Martin, below him, marinated in sex, anchored him to the bed.

When life came back to them, Douglas rolled to one side and pulled Martin to him. Martin stuck out his tongue and licked Douglas' nipple. Douglas chuckled and kissed him.

"That wasn't half bad," he purred.

Martin wove his legs between Douglas' thighs. "It was good. The best."

"Naturally."

"Can I tell you something?"

Douglas pulled away, his chest hair sticking to the drying effluence between them. Amused, he said, "Is there anything left to tell?"

"I've never spent a heat with anyone."

"Never?" Douglas studied Martin curiously. "Are you religious?"

Martin squirmed. "I've been busy."

"Some things demand you make time to enjoy." Douglas rolled his hip against Martin's half-interested cock.

"Yes, thank you for that," Martin patted his flank. "But -- and, I don't want to sound rash, but I _have_ been on the pills for fifteen years."

Douglas frowned, doing the maths. "Gosh, you were a late bloomer."

"Um, yes. What I mean is, you never hear about omegas in their thirties getting pregnant at the first go, not after years on the pill. Douglas, I -- I think I love you."

Douglas closed his eyes.

<|>

"I never said that!" Martin said. "You kept kissing my neck and telling me I smelled so good, you could put me in an aerosol and sell me to deployed servicemen."

Douglas grinned sheepishly. "Yes, I did think of that, didn't I? You should've taken it as a compliment."

Martin sighed. "I wasn't the one who said we should just go ahead with the 'full experience' _sans_ protection."

Paul said, "Each of you are bound to remember your own version of events --"

"I never said -- that word," Martin said.

<|>

Douglas hummed, pressing his forehead into Martin's throat. His precious, sweet boy. It had been an awfully long time since anyone had looked at him with that sort of ardent trust.

"Martin, heat does funny things to a man. But . . . sod it. I love you, too."

Martin huffed a gasp. "Douglas!"

"I know. This is insane. But I don't care if we regret it. The way you look beside me on GERTI all day, you drive me mad. I can't stop thinking about you. This may be my last chance, Martin."

Martin stared up into the grey darkness above that contained a cracked, disgusting ceiling as he skritched at the back of Douglas' head. Martin squeezed him tight, burying his damp cheeks in his soft t-shirt.

Douglas lifted his head, stroking Martin's cheek and hair so gently, so reverently. He kissed him softly, waiting for Martin to lean in, to deepen the kiss. They rested against one another, tracing their fingers up and down one another's skin, touching each other in ways their previous trysts hadn't given them the time or space to allow.

"I'm going to be a lot more logical about this in twenty-four hours," Martin said. "What if we never want to see each other when it's done?"

Douglas gathered him up, curling them together in the center of the bed. "I could never leave you, my darling."

Douglas' hands roamed over his back, holding him as Martin clung so tightly he shivered.

Douglas kissed him. "C'mere."

Martin nodded, let himself be loved. "Thank you."

"None of that, we're in this together."

<|>

"Stop," Paul said.

Martin dropped his forehead into his palm. "This is so humiliating."

"Oh, stop," Douglas said. "It's perfectly natural to act like a human being for once."

"This is a welcome space," Paul soothed. "But I wanted to check if you realized what happened in that moment."

Douglas glanced at Martin. "We had sex?"

"No, before that."

"I gave Douglas a --"

"Not the sex!"

They'd never seen Paul frustrated. They waited to be told the revelation they were supposed to reach.

"I mean, I'm sure the sex was extremely important," Paul said, lest he break Martin's self esteem, Douglas thought.

"Of course the sex is important, I was fantastic," Douglas said.

"Douglas," Paul said, "you said 'We're in this together.' What, exactly, were you together on?"

Douglas chewed a thumbnail. That night had been fraught with -- complications. One of his better sexual experiments, surely; he'd succeeded in bringing Martin to orgasm dozens of times, and he'd certainly enjoyed himself plenty.

"I don't know," Douglas said.

"The consequences," Martin said. "We agreed to be mates no matter what."

"We weren't mates before," Douglas grumbled. "We were screwing around. Half the time I couldn't stand you."

Martin sent him an irritated look.

<|>

They sat in the center of the bed, drinking sodas and eating cookies from the vending machine. Martin had taken to dunking his and licking at the softened icing. It was slightly disgusting and slightly erotic.

"So," Douglas said conversationally, "do you want the full, dominating alpha experience? Me on top, holding you down, take a little nibble from your neck?"

"Douglas," Martin admonished, hiding behind a cookie.

Douglas nudged him, grinning. "It can feel rather nice, if a bit claustrophobic after a few orgasms."

Martin fiddled with his Fanta tab. "I think I do? If you do? That's what I think about, sometimes, when I-I, um. When I'm alone. But only if you want to do that."

Douglas kissed that sugary lip. "It would be my honor."

Martin smiled. "Is that what you prefer? O-or, what you've done? Because, even though I've not, um, had as much experience, I-I'd quite like to make this, that is, _show you_ , er, no, that's not quite right. Hm."

Douglas smiled, brushing a soothing hand down Martin's curved spine. "I do, sometimes. I've been with a few submissive omegas. Some of them even liked a bit of a smack and tickle." He tested the waters.

"Oh," Martin said. "I-I, that's. New. Very-very new. To me."

"Bad new or interesting new?"

"Not . . . sure?"

Douglas' chuckle was the rumble of a sedate, yet interested, bear. Martin contemplated his purple Fanta, looking far more miserable than any sexed up omega ought.

Douglas set their picnic wrappers aside so he could kiss Martin's blush away. The man was warm to the touch, even bared to the pajama bottoms. Martin snuggled into his arms, whispering an apology.

Douglas kissed his temple. "Martin, stop apologizing for everything. Can't you ever trust you instincts?"

"No. Historically, that hasn't been a good strategy for me."

And then, with a yelp, Martin was upended, barely preventing a purple spill, and Douglas was upon him with a growl. Before Douglas could land atop him and deliver a promised "sexy rub-down," Martin wriggled away, skipping off the bed to fetch a towel. ("I don't think housekeeping would appreciate our run-offon their bedding." "Personally, I'd love a pillow well infused with your --" "That's revolting!")

"I'll make this perfect for you," Douglas said. "This is your first time, but it won't be our last."

As his lips moved low on Martin's back, down between his parted thighs, he thought that this was what his body wanted. The rest of his life was an endless two-step shuffle on ice while someone pelted him with marbles -- but this? This took no thought, no effort other than to _lift_ when Douglas slid the pillow under his hips. To _relax_ when Douglas slid fingers, then cock into his body. To _sigh_ when the knot swelled.

He was _needed_. It had to be something more than just hormones. Douglas hadn't even called him an utter bottom; he was more caring, so sincere and showing Martin his raw and utter Douglasness. Martin held onto the arms encircling him and thrust his hips back into Douglas' groin, making small circles as Douglas ground in deep with an intent to stay there. It felt _so good._

The knot grew as the muscles of his vestibule formed a hollow that hugged and clenched. Douglas rocked slowly, gently working himself to another orgasm, caressing Martin's spots as well. He felt it, his body's deep acceptance of the intrusion. He'd always been afraid of the pain of vaginal penetration. He angled his hips up to make the thrusting feel better, hitting that sensitive spot inside.

"Oh!" Martin hissed.

"Okay?" Douglas grunted between thrusts.

"I've never -- I don't usually push my toys that deep."

"Sorry." Douglas pulled back.

"No!" Martin's hands followed his hips. "Fuck me, please. I want you to take me."

Douglas growled, thrusting back in. "Say that again."

Martin grinned into Douglas' arm, still holding onto him. "Fuck me."

So he did.

<| _>_

 

Thirty-six hours later, as they showered together, they marveled at the crusting nail marks up and down Douglas' back.

Douglas ordered room service and they had a picnic on the bedspread, a fresh towel between them. Martin wrinkled his nose, watching Douglas polish off the chicken strips and big burger patty, while he daintily picked at his chips and licked the vinegar and salt from his fingers. The smell of charbroil was making him slightly nauseous. He hoped he could coax Douglas into the shower before they got back into bed, lest the meat essence leak from his pores.

Martin returned from the sink with three glasses of water, taking two for himself. Douglas watched him parade nude across the room, utterly content in his skin, pale and freckled down his back and across his tummy. An idle thought of that stomach swelled with pregnancy flickered through his mind, and he pushed it away. They were playing with fire, certainly, but they'd be fine. No one their age got pregnant the first go.

"You look beautiful," Douglas said. "I honestly don't know what you're doing with me."

Surprised, Martin said, "Thank you. I'm with you because I like you. I trust you. Because you're good to me and --" He didn't want to admit what they both knew was true: that convenience was a strong factor in their rendezvous. "Because you're you."

"I'm that great, am I?"

"I am -- fond of you, of course," Martin said. "Quite fond."

"Yes," Douglas stood, collecting the wrappers and detritus of their weekend. "I feel _quite_ the same."

When Martin got dressed, he felt the change beginning; he was returning to himself. 'Dried up' was a terrible yet accurate description. The truth often was.

<|>

"Did you talk after that?" Paul asked.

Martin sat cross-legged on the couch, a glass of cold water in his hands. Douglas was leaning on the sofa arm, preoccupied with a loose thread.

"Certainly we did," Douglas said.

"And how did that go."

"Fine," Douglas said.

"I don't remember," Martin said.

"Try harder," Paul said.

<|>

"We let ourselves get swept up into foolishness."

Douglas stared out of the picture window, watching Martin's reflection check and double-check under the beds and in the sheets for their  belongings. They'd be flying into a storm, but the night sky over Somewhere-i-stan was clear as glass, brilliantly cold, so that he could see the wobbles of hot air rising from the electric heater. Why do they put heaters under windows? Stupid idea. The window leaked cold, neutralizing the hot air -- why didn't people _think_?

"I think it's best for all of us if we just go back to how things were before -- before we let our hormones get the best of us," Martin clipped out. He sounded like a school master.

There was a sock under the heater, all scrunched up with the dust bunnies. Douglas'. He didn't really want it anymore. It had seen terrible things.

"It wasn't anyone's fault," Martin said. He zipped his flight case with an air of finality. "Well? Don't you have anything to say?"

<|>

"I see," Paul said.

"I left him be," Douglas said. "He wanted time and space, so I left him alone for weeks."

"You certainly did," Martin said.

Douglas glanced at him. "What was I supposed to do?"

Martin had resumed the sulking position he'd favored during their first session with Paul: legs crossed, turned into the opposite corner of the couch, showing Douglas his back. His eyes were blank, focused on the opposite wall.

"He hit the reset button," Douglas said, growing desperate and irritated. "He would have erased the whole thing, had he not come down with a little memento of the events."

"It's very difficult," Paul said, "some studies say almost impossible, to interrupt sex once a heat has started. There's an enormous amount of biological imperative to complete conception --"

"He knows, "Douglas said. "Martin just fancies he's above human standards."

"I don't!" Martin turned, eyes rimmed with moisture. Anger choked his words. "Don't -- can't you see? I am _so far away_ from superhuman."

"Martin --"

It was a silly thing, watching a five months' pregnant, clumsy, hormonal, sniffling Martin knee-walk across the cushions and crawl into Douglas' lap. Douglas hadn't thought he knew how to embrace in public.

"I'm sorry," was an unprecedented sound from the proud, compact man towards whom Douglas had grudgingly come to feel something like _care_.

"Are you, now?" Douglas said.

Martin huffed in affectionate exasperation as he slid beside Douglas on the sagging sofa.

"I was scared?" he said, studying their clasped hands.

"Yes, I was aware."

"Shut up, Douglas."

"Let him speak," Paul said quietly.

Douglas let his indignation die as he watched the fear and irritation draw Martin's brows together and form a little line. He even squeezed Martin's hand, which he thought was very charitable of him.

"I see now," Martin said slowly, "that I may have treated you perhaps quite shabbily. After."

"Oh, Martin, I understood --"

"Please!" He looked up. Douglas fell silent. "Let me apologize, I know you don't hear it often. I'm sorry I didn't want to tell you -- no." He was clearly choosing his words as carefully as he calculated minimum fuel carriage. "I'm sorry I didn't trust you enough to tell you I'd fallen pregnant. And I'm sorry that after we'd -- done the heat thing, I was perhaps a bit too harsh with you."

Douglas didn't know what to say. Martin stared at his astonished expression.

"Did I do it all right?"

"That was very well spoken," Paul praised. "Douglas, how do you feel?"

Douglas pulled his pregnant boyfriend close and deepened the kiss. Martin blushed, tried to block their lips with his hand, but didn't pull away.

"You didn't have to say any of that," Douglas whispered into Martin's ear.

"I'm not with you because we're having a baby." Martin squeezed his eyes shut and spoke into Douglas' throat. "I'm with you because I want you. I want us."

"You don't know how _relieved_ I am to hear that."

Martin pulled away, giggling, and said, louder, "I thought I was putting you out."

"No, really, I was pricing a lovely set of four-point restraints, just in case you got any funny ideas about becoming independent again."

"Ha ha, very funny." Martin was gathering their coats.

"But, Douglas," Paul was saying, "I think it's only fair if Martin hears your side of things."

Paul stood to meet them at the door. Martin and Douglas were talking, ignoring him.

"So . . . what do we do now?" Martin said.

Douglas _giggled_. "I don't know. What do you want to do?"

"Ah, guys?" Paul said. "We have five more minutes."

"I'm . . . _hungry._ Are you?"

"Famished. Let's get out of here."

As Douglas turned to Dr. Paul, he saw the appointment book out and open, as usual.

"Oh, thank you, but . . ."

Martin tilted his head.

Douglas nodded. "We're taking a break from therapy. It's getting a bit hectic, with our schedules."

"We're doing just fine, I think," Martin said.

"Look, why don't we sit down and talk about this," Paul said. "It's very common to feel confident after a breakthrough, but I really feel it's my ethical obligation to tell you that I think there are some important issues you should discuss in treatment."

"Thanks, but, I think we'll be fine."

Leaning on one another, with a kiss and perhaps a bit of a grope, they fell into the sparkling summer day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> My main Tumblr blog is [aura218.tumblr](http://aura218.tumblr.com/).


End file.
